I will Follow
by whynotitsfun
Summary: The war is over and life moves on. While returning from a job in the plains, our heroes come across something they'd not been expected. Somehow, Bass finds himself in a peculiar new place in life- how far will he have to go to keep it? Slow Burn Charloe (no makeup/breakup this time, I promise!) Accidental Baby Acquisition and all the hilarity that goes with it.
1. How The West Was Won-- A Prologue

_Ranger A Company Camp, outside of Austin… Five hours after the takeover…_

Miles poked his head into Bass' tent. He hadn't had a chance to talk to him since their plans at the church all came together. From there, everything had been a whirlwind of activity. They'd ridden hard to the Ranger's camp, arriving in two days what normally would be a three day ride.

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. There was still a lot that remained unsaid between them, and Miles had never been good at that kind of thing—not that Bass was any better of late. He used to be, but so much had happened over the years that there was certain disconnection between what was going on in his head and his ability to articulate it. After the events of the past several days, Miles was determined to make an effort though; Bass' actions deserved acknowledgment, especially now.

"Hey," Miles began. Bass was bent over his cot, rooting through his bag, as if he was in search of something. He stilled for a second, a silent acknowledgement that he was no longer alone. "So, listen. I just wanted to say thanks… for pulling through with Davis."

Bass said nothing, but went back to whatever he was doing. His back was still turned, so Miles couldn't quite tell. Silence reigned over the tent until it became uncomfortable. When it became obvious that his friend was not going to reply, Miles pushed a bit further. "I, uh… I gotta admit, when you were late, I was worried you wouldn't show. You did good though."

Bass slowly turned. His movement allowed Miles a full view of his cot. Bass' backpack was empty, sitting next to his gear. Everything was laid out in organized rows. Miles knew the man well enough to know that he was packing to leave long term. He only carried what he'd specifically need for a trip. If he was packing like this, he was taking everything.

"Go to hell," he said coldly and then turned back to his task. When the sounds of Miles' departure did not immediately reach his ears, he bothered to speak again. "I said, go to hell. Don't let the flap hit your ass on the way out."

"What's eating you?" Miles asked.

Bass shoved a few extra clips into the outside pouch of his backpack so they will be within easy reach and then checked his gun one last time. He'd already cleaned it and checked it twice, but it was an old habit that just wouldn't die. "You even have to ask? The fact that you actually thought I'd screw you over is a big part of it."

His response pissed Miles off a little. Same old Bass, always deflecting everything away from himself, like the blame is dirt and he's coated in Scotchguard. "Can you blame me? I mean, what else would you expect Bass?"

Slamming the clip back into the gun, Bass shoved it in the back of his jeans and went back to repacking his things. Once everything else is neatly stowed, he reached over and grabbed a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He looked at it a second and shoved it in the backpack as well. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he turned to leave, checking Miles in the shoulder as he did so. "Oh, I don't know, Miles. Maybe for forty years of friendship to count for something? Should have known better—you've been telling me since the day I showed up that it doesn't."

Miles stared in disbelief as Bass left. It slowly began to sink in that he was really taking off, possibly for good. He'd sort of figured that the two of them would join the fight together, guns blazing. A win was almost a sure thing now. He hadn't imagined that Bass wouldn't want to be a part of that.

He got moving, chasing after his lifelong friend. He cut Bass off just before he got to the guard post leading outside of camp, not even aware that Charlie's eyes followed them both in concern. Bass just shoved him aside to get past him and kept walking.

"Good luck with the war, boys," he said with a mock salute as he passed the guards currently on duty.

Refusing to give up, Miles followed him right out of camp. He waited until they were out of earshot of the guards before trying again. "It does mean something," Miles finally said as he grabbed Bass by the shoulder, forcing him to face him and whatever the hell was wrong now.

"Bullshit. I've spent the past what, eight, nine months hearing about how much of an untrustworthy piece of shit I am from the lot of you. I abandoned my kid to Neville to help you and all you can say to me was that you thought I'd fuck you over?" He let out bitter laugh. "I get it—I'm public enemy number one and I always will be. I know when I'm not wanted, and I'm tired of waiting around for that to change."

"So you're out of it then?" Miles couldn't believe that Bass was really going to back down from a chance to kill a whole lot of Patriots and make himself look like a hero.

Bass backed up a few steps. "I've got nothing to stay for."

"What about your kid?" Miles asks. He hated throwing that out there, but he couldn't believe that Bass was going to give up on him so easily. He'd only spent a few hours looking for him because they'd had to move. That didn't mean he'd vanished into thin air.

"What about him? He'll only try to kill me again anyway." When Miles looked at him in blank confusion, Bass elaborated. "Yeah, wanna know why I was late? It's because I was busy trying to keep Connor and Neville from killing your hostage. They wanted me to hand him over so Neville could get his revenge and so Connor and I would have a clean shot in the east. Kid was right too—killing Davis right then and there would have made it a hell of a lot easier to get it all back. What did I do? I told them no, all because you trusted me—how dumb was I to think it meant something?"

"Bass—"

"Save it," he said, all the rage he felt toward Miles and the rest of the world flowing out with every word. "I got to watch my kid give Neville and Scanlon the all clear to kill me and what good did it do me? I get a 'thanks for not fucking us over' from team Matheson."

Miles had been well and truly put in his place. He hadn't known, but maybe he'd gone about this the wrong way from the start. His intention had to reach out to the bitter and angry man his best friend has become and try to patch up some of the damage. All he'd done is make it worse—Bass apparently sacrificed a lot in the name of that friendship and all Miles has done was insult him for it. He felt like an ass, not that admitting it now would do any good.

"So where are you going to go?" he finally asked.

Bass shrugged and then turned away in both hurt and anger. "I'm going to go get my fucking militia back."

Miles furrowed his brows in concern, "Bass, don't—we can win this without the militia. I…" He what? He hesitated. This entire conversation had somehow taken an entirely different route than he'd intended. He'd set out to thank him and to try and mend those broken fences and somehow he'd turned into the bad guy here.

Bass had proven that he was still him after everything that had happened. Miles had thought him too far gone and had made those beliefs known all too well. He'd been wrong however and now the thought of Bass throwing himself back into the thick of all that madness terrified him.

Before he could think of anything else to say, he watched Bass turn away with one last bitter remark. "Just leave me alone, Miles. Go back to your girls and take your win. Get the hell away from me and stay out of my life."

With that, Miles watched his brother walk off alone. He wandered the camp in a daze for a while, before finally coming up with a plan. He and Charlie were simply going to have to track Bass and drag him back, whether he liked it or not. There was no way he was going to let him do it again.

Resolved, he went back to the tent he shared with Rachel. She was going to be pissed, but he couldn't let it drop this time. She'd just have to get over it. "Rachel, I've got…" he stopped when he saw her lying there on the ground.

She was gasping for breath, her hand pressed to her side. Blood seeped through her fingers. He dropped to his knees. Jerking out of his jacket, he balled it up and pressed it over the wound. The dirt under her was stained, indicating that she'd lost so much blood already. "Who?"

"From Davis…" she rasped before losing consciousness.

Miles picked up her limp body. Running from the tent, he screamed for help. He would watch helplessly as Gene and one of the Ranger's medics tried to bring her back. An hour afterwards he sat, covered in Rachel's blood, any plans of going after Bass long forgotten. In one day, he had lost his best friend and the love of his life. His plans now only consisted of one thing—he would fight until every last Patriot was in the ground.

_ Bass does indeed go back east. He finds the first division too, but what he finds is not what he'd expected. He'd once told Miles that if he showed back up to claim his men, it'd be like the second coming. He can't be further off the mark. _

_ The first division of the Monroe Militia had spent months after the bombs dropped scattered throughout the Ohio River Valley until one very clever Captain Kevin McBride managed to convince them to band back together. The Patriots had been trying to eradicate the former Militia for months and they'd been getting slaughtered._

_ Less fragmented, they stand a chance to survive now. At first, Bass couldn't believe his good luck in finding them halfway organized and decently equipped. An hour after finding them, he recalls that the only luck he ever seems to have is bad luck. He's immediately taken captive by the men that once swore their allegiance to him._

_ Half the men believe the Patriots' like about his having dropped the bombs. The other half believe that their former general simply abandoned them to save his own skin. Either way, they are not as happy to see him as he'd anticipated and it is obvious from the get go that no one will be taking orders from him any time soon, if ever. _

_ The past several weeks in captivity have been some of the worst weeks in Bass' life. If he'd thought he'd been prepared when they'd tied him to that whipping post, he'd been way off the mark. In Mexico, he'd endured twenty lashes before Connor had been allowed to stop. This time around, Bass had lost count somewhere around the thirtieth or so. He'd past out shortly thereafter. _

_ Of course, Captain McBride had been courteous enough to let him come back around before ordering the man charged with Bass' suffering to finish the job. Bass has only been given a few days to recover before the degradations begin anew. When it is all said and done, he will barely escape with his life. _

_ Much to his astonishment, it seems that not all of his former men have completely turned on him. They will not follow him now, it will mean their deaths. The only other thing the small faction is willing to do for him is to pay an elderly couple to keep Bass safe long enough to recover from his injuries. _

_ Bass' body heals slowly from the ordeal—the rest of the damage that has been inflicted on him is not so easily mended, however. He spends almost a month at the farmhouse before they tell him that he's been there far too long. The longer he's with them, they more likely it is that he will be discovered. They haven't been unkind, but it is clear they have no desire to risk their lives for Sebastian Monroe._

_ He takes off in the night, covering his tracks and hoping to erase his presence from the area. The three month journey has left him nothing but another network of scars on his back, ribs and sides and endless layers of scars where no one else can see. He's now left with one sad question: Where do I go from here?_

_ He doesn't want to go back to Texas. He has nothing left except his pride and he refuses to go crawling back with his tail between his legs, begging for their acceptance and forgiveness. He manages to sneak on a Patriot train headed west. He climbs into a boxcar while the khaki sons of bitches are clearing a fallen tree from the tracks. _

_ Bass jumps off somewhere in what he thinks (or, at least hopes) is Nebraska and just sort of wanders for a while. He happens to be traipsing through an overgrown field when he comes across a Patriot rider. The man catches sight of him. He's been avoiding the Patriots for the most part—he no longer has stake in this war. He has no one and nothing to fight for, and he could care less what happens in the end. Detection, however; is not an option. He's left with no choice but to take the man down._

_ Being practical, he searches the body and steals the man's horse and weapons. He finds a large stack of dispatches in the saddle bags. There are lists of bases, munitions depots and the like. This information could come in handy, to be sure. Suddenly, the warrior in Bass comes back to life. In the right hands, this intel he's stumbled upon could certainly make a lot of lives very miserable—and he just happens to be those "right hands."_

**September 3, 2029… South Dakota…**

The war was not going as expected. The Rangers hadn't lost, but the original plans of it being done by summer's end turned out to be a gross exaggeration. They are still in the thick of things and there seems to be no end in sight. The east is one giant mess and the plains are really no better. Washington D.C. has fallen, but really it was a symbol and nothing more.

The Patriots keep coming out of the woodwork and they never seem to run out of supplies or ammo. Miles' company had been chasing leads for weeks, pushing further north with each battle. They were currently bogged down outside of Rapid City at the old Ellsworth Air Force Base.

The Patriots have been using the old base as a reprogramming center and, if their sparse intel is correct, a small munitions dump. If something didn't give, they would lose the battle, and most likely their lives. He hadn't even seen Charlie for a good hour and had no idea if she was among the increasing pile of bodies.

Out of nowhere a small explosion went off. Miles turned in its direction. He saw a shadow scramble away from a now burning building and duck for cover. Moments later, a series of explosions went off. The Patriots stopped fighting for just a few minutes, giving Miles and his men time to recover and advance.

At the end of the day, the base was taken. A search of the rubble showed that there was more to this base than what met the eye. They'd expected to find ammo and a stash of rifles. They hadn't expected to find the remnants of a factory. It seemed that the Patriots had been redeveloping pre-blackout explosives to work without electricity and had been producing them on a larger scale.

Had the timely explosion not occurred, it would only have been a matter of time before those weapons would have been used against them and the record of the day's events would have been something else entirely.

As he walked around camp that night, checking on the wounded and getting reports from squad leaders, Miles thought back to that shadowy figure he'd seen. There'd been something familiar about the way it had moved. _It couldn't be…_he thought to himself. _Could it?_

_ The Texans are severely outnumbered, having no clue what they are really dealing with. Bass, however knows exactly what this place is. He'd been scouting the camp for days before the Rangers suddenly showed up to take the base. _

_ His carefully thought out plan is put into action before he's quite ready, but there's enough chaos going on that it actually makes things easier than he'd anticipated. He's able to use the cover of darkness and the fighting around him to slip into the camp with no one the wiser. No one notices the man slip from one shadow to the next towards the tents that house this make-shift factory._

_ Bass is just one man, but he's also a very skilled and reckless one. He sets the charges (Nora Clayton wasn't the only one that knew how to plant a bomb) and then goes to set the whole thing off, planning on being well out of the way before go-time._

_ He barely manages to not blow himself to kingdom come in the process. One of the charges he's set goes off sooner than he's anticipated and he just makes it out of there without being blown to bits. _

_ He'd chosen this target because off all the ones listed in the "Little Black Book of Patriotism" (as he's been calling those dispatches in his mind), this one seems to be the most dangerous when it comes to what its existence could mean._

_ After hitting a few insignificant targets along the way to South Dakota as trial runs, he's decided to hit the Patriots where it might actually hurt. That he also will save the Rangers sorry asses in the process is a happy accident as far as he's concerned. _

_ He practically scampers to a rise above the camp and watches the mayhem ensue from above. He's sure that if anyone were to see him now, they'd take him for a complete lunatic. He doesn't give a damn. He watches and drinks and laughs, having a good old time. He's practically cackling with glee when the Rangers run them over and take the base._

_ When the battle is over, a feeling of complete satisfaction washes over Bass. He knows that if it wasn't for his actions, that they'd have been killed. He doesn't want the credit—indeed; he's downright giddy that none were the wiser. He got in, got out and got to blow shit up. __**That**__had been fun. He pulls out the Little Black Book of Patriotism and flips from one page to the next until he finds another good target. _

_ There's another base in Casper, Wyoming that sounds promising and so many smaller targets along the way. In the morning, he'll get going once more. In the meantime, he's going to finish his whiskey and see if he can sneak some supplies from the allies that don't even know he exists. He's a pretty damn good cat burglar if he puts his mind to it- and stealing from the Rangers will be amusing at any rate._

**October 29, 2029**

The Patriots had a saboteur. Or, at least that's what the rumors were. There was talk throughout Texas that a rebel faction had either infiltrated the Patriots or some of them had turned on their leaders. Either way, it seemed that they were being attacked from the inside out over and over again.

First, there was the explosion during the battle of Rapid City. Although the official story had been that the explosives had been unstable and had self-ignited, rumor had it that someone had set them off intentionally.

And then not a week later, Acting General Miles Matheson had received an anonymous message drawing him to an unknown depot on the South Dakota, Wyoming border. Three trains stood abandoned, practically giftwrapped for them. Those trains were sorely needed. The rails were the one advantage that the Patriots had over Texas. They'd inherited them all from Georgia when they'd landed and had been putting them too good use.

Miles' official report had been that some unknown party, possibly an allied war clan had killed the men guarding the station. There'd only been a dozen guards left to watch over it all, and it wouldn't have been too hard. Unofficially, he'd been suspicious. Only four of the twelve soldiers had been shot. The rest had been killed with a blade. Several were found under the trains, almost as if someone was hiding their bodies. He'd seen handiwork like this before and had instantly known.

Then there was the battle at Casper. It was a small reprogramming center, but it specialized in a new type of super soldier borne from captured clansmen. Already strong and deadly, they were being reprogrammed to fight with a new type of ferocity not yet seen.

In the midst of the battle, they'd been running out of ammo. That was until someone began attacking from behind enemy lines. With supplies short on both sides in this remote area, they'd been fighting mostly hand to hand and the new cadets were gaining the upper hand. A sniper suddenly began picking them off, one by one from afar.

The search for the unseen assailant had provided the perfect distraction to help Miles get his men closer and suddenly they were on the offense once more. Death from above stopped, but by then the cadets were overrun and it the conclusion had been a mere formality. As it was coming to an end, Miles looked up and he saw him. He'd had his suspicions before, but now they'd been solidified. He knew it was Bass. They locked eyes for just a split second, and he was gone.

After that battle, Miles had looked for him, but had turned up nothing. Charlie had also tried with identical results. He was helping them, and yet for some reason he was trying to remain anonymous. That had been two weeks ago. There'd been little things here or there in the days since. A few wagons left on the road, their driver's dead and supplies waiting to be taken.

Now, they were fighting yet another battle. This time, it was Pueblo Colorado. Things were coming full circle and they were heading back down towards the Texan border. From what Miles knew, the East had already fallen and once the plains were rid of the Patriot infestation, it would all be over.

Miles' men had met up with another company under Malcom Dove. This was the largest battle they'd seen and victory here would be vital to finally ending the war.

_ Bass has been enjoying himself over the past weeks. It's almost like he's become Robin Hood or Batman, if you will. The trains had been probably one of the most ingenious attacks he's ever planned—and that includes all of those years running the Republic. _

_ Texas needed those trains, Bass needed the supplies they were sure to carry and they'd been ripe for the picking. He'd carefully watched for hours before making his move. When the wind had picked up, a storm looming on the horizon, he'd known it was time. He was up against twelve men that had been charged with watching over a large train yard. Really, it had been foolish of the Patriots to leave it so poorly defended, but then again, who needs large numbers when you've got secrecy on your side?_

_ He'd started off on the far side of the yard. The guards had been split lit up in groups of two and it was nothing to slit a throat and gut a man before anyone could see or hear anything. The weather had given him what he'd needed to work in secret and it hadn't taken long before he'd taken out the first four pairs._

_ By the time he'd been down to the last four men, they'd realized something was wrong and so he'd taken them with guns blazing. It had ended as quickly as it had begun, his only injury having been a graze along his bicep._

_ He'd found more than enough medical supplies in one of the boxcars to tend to this minor annoyance. He'd also found a M110 sniper system. He'd been traveling light, but he hadn't been able to resist that one. _

_ He'd waited several days, scouting ahead. He'd known that the Rangers hadn't been far form that train yard. The day after Rapid City, he'd found out just who had been in charge of that company he'd helped. He'd been surprised by that, really. When it had become clear that the Rangers will not stumble upon his gift, he'd send a message to Miles via a local boy with its location. He'd watching from afar when they'd arrived. _

_ The supply wagons had been nothing, a few well timed shots and he'd had them. That had really been for his own survival more than anything. Although he'd been playing the part of a ghost, he still had to eat and Patriots were easier to shoot than game. He'd taken what he could and had left the rest. He knew where Miles was headed and so it was nothing to stay a day or two ahead of them._

_ Bass had ended up putting that sniper rifle to good use in Casper. He'd gotten there days before the battle and had plenty of time to scout it out. There'd have been no way in hell that he'd have gotten that close to a warclan, but he'd been practically on top of them by the time that Miles had attacked. The brainwashed clansmen had lost that natural awareness that had given them an additional edge. As usual, he'd lain in wait. There was no point in intervening and risking discovery if the Rangers were already winning._

_ When it had started to look iffy, he'd opened fire. One by one the cadets had fallen. They'd ignored the Rangers after that, searching for Bass instead. He'd ended almost having been caught, but had fought his way out—sadly having to abandon that beautiful rifle. _

_ Making a hasty retreat, he'd doubled back across the Rangers' line, using them to cover his own flight. In the thick of it he'd looked up and had locked eyes with Miles. It was just for a second, and then the sound of gunfire had distracted his old friend long enough for Bass to get out of there. _

_ Afterwards, he'd had to go into hiding to avoid them. Charlie had actually gotten really close and for a second he thought he'd get caught. She'd given up, however and he'd managed to remain alone. That's what he'd wanted, after all. _

_ Of course, Miles wasn't the only one he's helped since finding those dispatches and maps. Stowing away in boxcars, wagons and caravans, he's been able to cover a lot of ground. The Patriots have been talking because they can't imagine it being a single rebellious cell. It's too widespread, in their minds. _

_ Things that Bass hasn't even been responsible for—surely some were just instances of bad luck have been blamed on the sabotage. It's kind of funny, really. He's become a thing of legend, even though they don't realize that it's just been one slightly unstable deposed dictator all along. _

_ He hasn't quite figured out why he started this in the first place. He figures it's probably a combination of things. He was depressed and bored, for one. This has given him something to do, a sense of purpose. He's helping the cause, but he doesn't have to hear about how unwanted or unneeded he is. No one is waiting in the wings, jumping at the chance to remind him that it doesn't change anything—he's still hated. _

_ Another battle looms ahead. The largest Patriot base still standing is in Pueblo, Colorado. Bass knows that's where they'll go next. There's no way Miles can take it alone—the rest of the Rangers in the area will have to meet up with him at some point. _

_ Bass makes sure he's there first. He does what he can before the scene is even set. The Patriots use those barrels to shove their cadets in during the reprogramming process. What if a few of those had something that went boom inside? It's disgusting how easy it is for him to get in and out and rig a few things. A company of Texas Rangers is an easy thing to spot. One man slipping in and out of the shadows is not._

_ By the time that the fighting has begun, he's ready to make a few moves to give the Rangers an edge when he can. This time, however he can't remain unseen. Eventually, this battle will draw him into the thick of it…_

Charlie was bogged down behind an overturned wagon. She was alone and almost out of ammo. She had no idea where Miles was and she knew it was only a matter of time before she was done. She'd taken a knife down the side of her face as she'd fought off another cadet. She'd just barely turned, that having inadvertently saved her eye.

The blood was running down and making it hard to focus. She popped up and got a few more shots off before having to duck down again to avoid getting her head blown off. Her gun now empty, she was working a way out of there in her head when she heard the sound of a rifle being cocked behind her. She slowly turned to see two cadets standing there.

"Hands up," one of them instructed coldly.

She let the now useless weapon fall to the ground and slowly began to comply. Her gaze swept up one of the soldiers, and she almost did a double take when she saw the blade come out the belly of one of them. Two seconds later, a gun went off and the other fell to the ground.

The first fell to his knees to reveal a very tired and filthy looking Bass. They locked eyes while he used a boot to kick the fallen cadet off of his blade. Charlie stood there frozen as the sounds of the battle surrounded them.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. Stashing his gun in his waistband, Bass grabbed her arm. "Time to go," he told her as he pulled her along behind him.

Charlie eventually came back to her senses enough to be of some use. She helped him fight and they edged their way across the base. All of the sudden, he shoved her behind a shack. Pulling out his gun, he aimed not for a Patriot, but for a barrel some distance away. "When I say run, fucking run," he ordered.

She barely had time to nod her understanding. He fired several times and then shouted for her to run, shoving her along. As the explosions went off, he wrapped himself around her, instinctively trying to shield her from the blast.

_Bass hadn't planned on getting this close, but he'd seen Charlie get trapped. His initial intentions had been to remain out of the thick of things. He'd had to ditch a lot of his gear when he came out of hiding to get to her, so he doesn't have the equipment to set off that barrel from further away. _

_ The explosion sends several Patriots flying and has provided yet another well-timed distraction. That's all most of his efforts have been. No matter how good he is or thinks he is, Bass is just one man. Distracting the hell out of his enemy and taking them by surprise is the one thing that has not only kept him alive, but is what has enabled him to help these allies that would turn down his aid, if only they knew who'd been helping him. For reasons that Bass cannot fathom, Miles and Charlie have not revealed his secret—yet._

_ As they slip from one building to the next, he sets off a few more rigged barrels. "Since when were you such a pyromaniac?" Charlie asks him as she shoves him off of her. _

_ They were a bit too close to that last one and he'd used his body as a shield to protect her from some of the shrapnel. It has resulted in a few pieces getting his back and he grunts in pain as he reaches behind to pull one out._

_ "Gets the job done, doesn't it?" he bites out as he winces. He can't reach the last piece that's embedded in his skin through his jacket. _

_ With a roll of her eyes, Charlie yanks it out. They pause just long enough for Bass to get a better look at the slash on her face. The bleeding has slowed a little and it'll have to wait. It's not bad enough to keep her out of the thick of it. They keep moving and fight their way towards Miles._

_They find him and soon they are all fighting together. For the time being, the urge to not die is more important than the unexpected reunion. There will be time to talk about it later. Within a few hours, it is all over. _

_ Texas wins the day and because of the victory here, they will go on to win the war. This is the last reprogramming center to fall and the Patriots no longer have the numbers and supplies to set up another. It is just a matter of time before any straggling soldiers are rounded up and the war will end._

_ He sticks around just long enough to get his back tended to and make sure that the angry slash on Charlie's face is looked at. Miles stands by, his eyes wide in shock as he sees the mess that is Bass' back. Before he can be questioned about it, Bass gets out of there._

_ This has been the first time that Bass has spoken to any of them; the first time that he's had to get close enough to interact. When the heat of battle is over, he doesn't know what to say, so he makes sure he doesn't have to say anything. He knows that Miles and Charlie were not the only ones that noted his presence, and he'd rather not have to answer for his actions._

As the war began to wind down, word got back to Blanchard that the "ghost" that had haunted the Patriots in the plains had been Bass. His presence was noted in several more minor skirmishes towards the end. Most of these, he was actually at. Some of them, someone had just thought he might have been there.

Despite his insistence on absolute anonymity, he'd somehow become a war hero. He hadn't wanted it, he hadn't asked for it. And afterwards, he hadn't stuck around long enough to find out about. It...

_**February12 2030, somewhere in Missouri…**_

_ The war has been over for two months. Bass sits in front of his campfire, somewhere in Southwest Missouri. He waits for the beans he's stolen for his dinner to cook as he huddles under a blanket. If he had half a brain, he'd find shelter for the rest of winter, but he's just stubborn enough not to. _

_ He hears a sound in the woods around him. Always suspicious, he leaves his dinner to go check it out. After a good twenty minutes, he's decided that it must have been a deer or something. Too lonely and cold to bother with it further, he goes back to camp._

_ He finds Charlie sitting in the spot he'd just vacated, taking a bite of his beans. She cocks her brow up at him as she picks up his abandoned flask and takes a good pull off of it. "You should know better than to leave your supplies unattended," she says with a smirk._

_ "What are you doing here?" he asks, confused by her presence. How has she found him? Why has she even bothered? _

_ Before Bass can ask, he hears another sound behind him. Miles saunters out of the woods as if this is something he did every day. Obviously, he was the one making all that racket in the distance. "It's freezing out here, dummy. Couldn't you find a better spot to set up camp? You know, one a little less—outdoors?"_

_ Bass just stands there dumbfounded as Miles joins his niece in stealing Bass' supper. "Beans? Don't you ever get sick of them?" He asks. He and Charlie share a look and she sets the pot back down and disappears._

_ A quarter of an hour later, she's back with a wagon. She unloads some supplies and gets started with preparing a real meal for them._

_ "Sit down, stupid—before you freeze to death," Miles says as he goes to help Charlie in setting up a proper camp. From the looks of him, the man they've finally tracked down is starting to wear thin. The war has been over for almost two months and he's been on his own since then. Winter in the plains is hardly a smart place to be a drifter. _

_ In a state of shock still, Bass resumes his earlier perch. He accepts the woolen blanket that Miles hands him. His thin (and holey) leather jacket has not been adequate protection from the cold and he's grateful for the added layer of protection. He's never been one to bitch about the elements but he's been feeling the low temperatures seep straight through to his bones for days._

_ "We thought you were dead, you know," Miles finally tells him. "We heard rumors that the Militia had turned on you when you showed up—that they'd finally killed you in the end."_

_ "Who do you think started the rumors? No one hunts down a dead man," Bass said thoughtfully. Charlie handed him a plate and he started to eat. He'd been living off of scraps for the past week, and it was nice to get in a good meal, even if he didn't know why it had been offered. _

_ "What are you doing way out here?" Charlie asks, curious. _

_ "Vacationing in paradise," Bass quips, gesturing to the frozen forest around them. It hasn't snowed yet, but the frost has been pretty much a permanent fixture over the past weeks. This winter will be a bitch of one, to be sure. "Not like I had anywhere else to go. What are __**you**__doing way out here?"_

_ "Looking for you, asshole," Miles says. _

_ Bass sighs. "I figured that. Why? Blanchard send you to take me in?"_

_ "Not exactly," Miles replies cryptically. _

_ Bass finishes his meal and sets the plate down. Picking up his flask, he takes a drink. The burn of the plain's moonshine makes him feel warmer. He has not taste for the stuff, but booze is booze and it's what he could get. "I'm surprised Rachel let you out—figured she'd keep you both under lock and key after you got back from playing cowboys and Indians."_

_ Charlie and Miles both flinch at his words. "Rachel's dead, Bass," Miles tells him quietly._

_ Bass is taken off guard by that piece of news. His history with the woman was complicated at best, but he hadn't wanted her dead—not really. "When?"_

_ "Right after you left—same day, actually," Miles replies, an underlying bitterness there._

_ At first, Bass wonders if he's being accused of something, but he figures it out. Miles knows he hadn't had anything to do with it. He's mad because he'd left in the first place; because he hadn't been there when Miles had needed him. "I'm sorry," he eventually says with all the sincerity he can muster._

_ They sit in silence for a while. Bass is tired and needs sleep. He's been alone for so long that he can't remember the last time he's had the luxury of falling fully into that condition. He's been on the run since the end of the war and is wearing out. "So are you going to tell me why you're here?" he asks again._

_ Miles nods. He locks eyes with his old friend as he holds his hands out to the fire to warm them. He tells Bass about the job that he and Charlie were offered by Blanchard—how that offer has been extended to him as well. Blanchard needs people that can get things done discretely, behind the scenes. The three of them exposed the Patriots for what they were and managed to help save a continent. He couldn't ask for a better group for the job._

_ He waits for Bass to absorb this before making one final comment. "We're here to bring you back. It's time to come home, Bass."_

_ They don't expect him to decide right away. Charlie offers to take first watch and so he and Miles bed down for the night. Thoughts of what he's been offered swirl around Bass' mind. Home… it's such a foreign concept to him now, so long as it's been since he's had one. It dawns on him what Miles has meant by that. Maybe there is a chance for him to finally find a place where he can stop fighting and just be. If he gives it a chance, maybe he can finally belong. "Okay, I'll do it," he says into the darkness._

_ "Good," is Miles' tired reply._


	2. How Did Your Family Grow?

**A/N: In some ways, I guess this is the second part of the prologue… Just a few scenes to illustrate the friendships that Bass has solidified with Charlie and Miles in the months following the war and to set the scene for the actual plot. **

**I've decided that Gene, Aaron and Priscilla's roles will be very minor (Aaron and Priscilla are really just background for the most part, while Gene will have a few things to say, but not many).**

**More notes at the bottom.**

**May 4, 2030**

Charlie groaned as she grabbed her spare pillow and burrowed her head under it. Whatever had possessed her to move next door to the noisiest buffoon in Willoughby was beyond her. The walls of the duplex were paper thin and he was at it again.

He'd woken her up with a muffled shout an hour before. She wouldn't be so annoyed but it had been happening more frequently of late. It seemed that the longer they went in between jobs, the more it happened, and she was fed up. She knew from experience that he'd be at it for hours yet.

They were supposed to be leaving at first light, so her sleep was precious to her this night. With an annoyed sigh, Charlie gave up on ignoring the racket coming through the walls and got up. She got dressed in the dark, grumbling to herself about Bass being the most inconsiderate neighbor in the history of ever.

Throwing her front door open, she walked across the covered porch they shared to his door. Of course, it was locked. In her tired mind, she briefly entertained the idea of kicking it open—and then thought better of it. Even if she was able to do it, she'd probably just bruise the crap out of herself in the process.

Swearing under her breath, she went back inside her own unit and walked through it to the back door. Sure enough, it was open. Bass never seemed to remember to lock it. He was so bad about it that Charlie had just gotten herself into the habit of checking it herself when they were going on the road again. It was easier than hearing him bitch about it later.

She let herself in and stomped towards signs of life. She found him pacing in the hallway. "Charlie? What the hell are you doing here?" he slurred when he turned to see her standing there, her arms crossed over her chest and foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor.

"Go. To. Bed. Monroe." She ground out. Charlie refused to let herself pity him right now. Did he look like hell? Sure . Was it is fault? Of course not. Was she too tired to give a damn at the moment? Damn straight.

Having stopped moving, he realized how buzzed he was at the moment. He'd woken up with the voices of the dead once more ringing in his ears, along with the sound of a whip cracking—the feel of it against his flesh so real each time it came down.

Knowing he'd be unable to go back to sleep, he went back to the only tried and true method he knew of—he started drinking. As it was, he had to reach out to the wall for support. "Did I wake you?" he asked with feigned nonchalance.

Charlie gritted her teeth, aggravated beyond words. "We are leaving in like five hours. Some of us like to sleep before a road trip," she hissed. The dark circles under his eyes told her exactly how little he'd been sleeping of late. It had been over a month since they'd gotten back from their last job and that was too long for him to remain idle. It always got better on the road.

Fighting the urge to smack him, she instead grabbed his arm and dragged him into the living room. As unsteady as he was, it took almost nothing for her to shove him backwards onto the couch. Her bare feet slapped on the hardwood floor, echoing throughout the duplex as she made her way down the hall to his bedroom to get a blanket.

"When we get back, you've _got_ to do something about this," she told him when she returned. He was already passed out. "I hate you sometimes," she whined to his now deaf ears. With a sigh, she grabbed him by the arm and did her best to position him better on the couch, rousing him just enough to aid her. She draped the blanket over him before taking one last look.

He really did look like hell. She was of a mind to mention it to her grandfather if he didn't. He was hardly a therapist, but maybe there was something he could do to help. At the very least he could give the man something to help him sleep. Even that would be helpful—if not for Bass, then for her.

She locked the backdoor and let herself out the front, locking the knob behind her. Without the deadbolt and chain in place it was hardly the "fortress of security" he normally insisted on; a laughable concept considering he never remembered the back door.

Charlie slid back into her bed with a grateful sigh. Wide awake now, she stared at the ceiling and swore he was going to pay for this when they got back. By the time she was done with him, he'd be begging for mercy. She plotted and planned. She'd make him do her laundry for a month, she thought. She let out an evil chuckle—and all her shopping. And he owed her a week's worth of bar tabs for all her pain and suffering too. Thinking of ways to make his life miserable in return, Charlie eventually fell asleep.

**May 31, 2030**

"What do you mean you're _not_ going?" Miles asked.

Bass propped his feet up on his coffee table and crossed his arms over his chest like a stubborn pouting child. "I mean exactly that—not going, can't make me, give it a rest."

"You _have_ to go, asshole," he protested. Miles didn't exactly want to go to the damn thing either, but Blanchard had kind of insisted on it. After all, the two men were responsible for the declaration of war in the first place. It was exactly one year that day that both men had tricked Davis into revealing his true intentions to Texas.

Blanchard had pressured congress and the last day of May was made an official holiday to commemorate the beginning of the end of the Patriots. Despite the fact that Texas had been officially a sovereign nation for the past fifteen years, the day would forever be remembered as the true day of Texan independence.

It had all happened in Willoughby and therefore this was where the first celebration was to be focused. Blanchard would be there, the press would be there and both men, along with Charlie and Gene were to be considered guests of honor. And they'd been told that under no uncertain terms that their presence was not a request.

Bass was one guest that had no desire to take part in the pomp and circumstance. "No, I don't. I'm not Blanchard's dancing monkey. He can't order me to show up to a party that I don't want to go to, to accept some honor that I don't deserve just so he can look pretty to the reporters." Texas paid him, and that was all find and good. Texas was also still trying to kill him a year and two days ago, so he really didn't feel inclined to show any love for the country itself.

"In case you've forgotten, Blanchard pays our bills and puts food on our tables. You don't have a choice. Besides, I think it'd be good for Charlie. She's been spending way to much time hiding herself lately."

Bass clenched his jaw and sent Miles an annoyed glare. He always knew just what to say to get him to do whatever he wanted. "I hate you," he grumbled as he got up from the couch. "Fine, I'll go. But I'm not dressing up for it, and I'm _not_ shaving."

"God, you're such a big baby," Miles said with a laugh to Bass' retreating form. This earned him a flip of the bird as he disappeared down the hallway to get cleaned up. He'd get the stubborn ass out and about and make him socialize like a normal human being if it killed him.

He'd been worried as hell about Bass when he'd first mentioned moving out of Gene's house a few weeks after coming back. He'd been depressed when they'd tracked him down as it was. Coming back to discover that Connor's body had been found in their absence had only made it worse.

Bass had spent those early days a complete mess. There was no doubt in their minds that Tom Neville had killed Connor. After all, his remains had been found not far from the shack that Bass had locked the two together in. Of course, he'd blamed himself and Miles had been terrified that it would push him over the edge.

And then, one day he'd seemingly snapped out of it. It had been like he'd flipped a switch and had erased the grief. Only, Miles knew better. Shortly thereafter they'd gone on their first job together and when they'd gotten paid, he'd announced that he'd found the duplex. He could have just as easily bought a regular house, but it was a little isolated on the street (a fire having taken the neighboring building a few years prior) and he figured he could always let out the other unit if he wanted.

That had given Miles an idea. When Charlie mentioned her own desire for more privacy a few weeks after that, he'd nudged her in that direction. He knew she was trying to find her own way to cope with the loss of Jason and her mom and the memories of war and he was just as worried about her as he'd been about Bass.

And so, he'd convinced Charlie that Bass needed watching and had then gone behind the scenes to convince Bass that she'd needed the same. His friend had agreed to let out the other unit to Charlie for damn near nothing (as a favor to Miles, mind you) and that had been that. He knew that Bass would never let anything happen to her and Charlie was good about letting him know when Bass wasn't doing so well. All in all, it was a perfect arrangement…

Two hours later, they were all sitting there at the main table that had been set up outside the town hall, like good little performing monkeys while Blanchard went on and on about their good deed. The man played it up—after all, the press was there. All the while, Bass slouched in his chair, wishing himself invisible while he did his best to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible.

Charlie looked no happier to be there, which made him feel like a heel. Miles had been right about one thing, she'd been isolating herself of late. On a job, she was as cool and confident as ever. Once they were back home again, well things were different.

He'd never imagined her being shy or lacking confidence in public, but she was all the same. A lot of it stemmed from the fact that she really had very little in common with the people her age in town—not that there were a hell of a lot of them.

A huge chunk of the town's younger generation had been swayed by the Patriots and most of them had ended up killed. Because of this, there were some that resented all of them. Even though they knew now that the Patriots had tricked those young people into serving and had tortured and brainwashed them, Bass and Charlie had been the ones to kill them.

The ones that hadn't joined, well they hadn't participated in the war later either. Charlie was an enigma to them and intimidating as hell. That intimidation manifested itself as rejection more often than not. The only real friend she had in her age group was Heather Matthews, and that was only because she'd stood up and helped them.

Most of the other young women were afraid of her and most of the young men found her too rough around the edges for their tastes. Young cowards such as they preferred women that made them feel powerful and allowed them to forget the fact that they'd failed to help save their town when all was said and done.

Added to these insecurities was the long scar that she'd been left with thanks to that knife she'd taken to the face right before Bass had saved her. The medic at that field hospital had been going for speed, not accuracy with that one. It served as an obvious and stark reminder to anyone that saw her that Charlie was not just another young woman—it harshly told them all who she was in a way that she could not hide.

Finally, Blanchard finished blathering on and the ceremony came to an end. This left them free to mingle, and if they were lucky, escape. The whiskey would flow and the hastily built bandstand would be surrounded by people looking to forget the everyday toils that plagued their post-blackout lives.

Bass and Charlie both made a beeline for the crowd as soon as they were able. Neither one had any intention of dancing or mingling. They were headed straight for the booze and didn't care to even hide it.

Technically speaking, Miles was the leader of their little operation, which suited them just fine. Bass had enough hang ups and issues that he didn't care to be more than a decision-less hired gun and Charlie was more than happy to let Miles take charge, if only to give him something to keep him from dwelling on his own losses. Miles being the boss meant that he had to make nice with Blanchard while they enjoyed themselves.

They didn't bother staying together really. Both were lost to their own misery at having to attend and were really just seeking a shot of solitude to go with their whiskey. Bass found himself a spot at one of the makeshift bars set up and resumed his goal of getting completely and utterly smashed.

He stayed there, avoiding the curious glances and sultry looks he received from the occasional woman (and he was pretty sure at least one man) that was seeking a bit of danger for the evening. Despite his past reputation of being willing to sleep with just about any woman with a heartbeat, he'd been keeping to himself for the most part since he'd followed the Mathesons back here.

Not that he didn't get laid—he was Bass Monroe, after all. He just kept his association to the pros (preferably those that were new members to the world's oldest labor union). He'd always made a rule of it in the past to never pay for it, even if it was a whore. He'd definitely received his share of freebies over the years too.

These days, well it was different. A whore did what she was paid to do, that was it. It was a business transaction that ended with everyone mutually happy. He didn't have to pretend to let his guard down and she didn't ask questions. She pretended not to see the slashes that marred his back and extended over his shoulders and from is ribs to his stomach.

It wasn't a matter of vanity by any means—it was about what they represented. He didn't owe a whore any explanations and they didn't want one. A lover, however, was a different story. She'd want to know how, why and so on. The humiliation of it all was more than he was willing or able to discuss with anyone.

He couldn't even talk to Miles about it. There was no way he was able to go there with any of the women in town. Most of them lived here the night Texas had tried to execute him. The ones that had come after the war had ended to repopulate the town, well they'd at least read about it. The visible reminder of that torture he'd received at the hands of his own men would only reinforce negative views of who he was. He didn't have it in him to risk getting attached to someone that would one day wake up and realize that they were involved with a monster.

Turning down a rather overt proposition and tiring of this game, Bass decided to call it a night. He wandered through the crowd, which had thankfully started to finally thin out a little. He was almost through the center of town when commotion across the street drew his attention.

Curious and too drunk to mind his own business, he followed the sound to an alley.

"I said get your damn hands off of me," Charlie sneered as she got fed up and drew her knife. "Not interested anymore."

"Aw, come on baby. You can't tell me you don't like it a little rough," the young man said, placating while at the same time somehow managing to sound threatening at the same time. "Girl like you—all tough and ready for action."

"I'm pretty sure I heard the lady tell you to keep your hands to yourself," Bass said casually as he leaned up against an old dumpster at the front of the alley.

The young man turned. "Why don't you mind your own damn business?" he asked.

"She's my fucking friend. That makes it my damn business. You might want to get out of here. If she doesn't fuck you up, I will," he warned.

Charlie shot Bass an annoyed look. Sure, she was a little grateful for the intervention, but she also was embarrassed that she needed it in the first place. "No thanks, I've got this," she said as she raised her knee swiftly. Her aim was true and she got him right in the crotch. "The answer is and will forever be 'no,' Bobby. Remember that."

She put her knife back in its sheath and walked to the front of the alley without a backward glance, nodding to Bass in acknowledgement as she sailed past him, her head held high. She refused to allow either man see how much the little asshole's words had cut into her.

"You coming?" she called over her shoulder as an afterthought. More than likely they were headed to the same place anyway.

"One moment," Bass said. With a grin, he took a few giant steps forward. "Learn to mind your manners," he told Bobby before winding up and sending his hand ramming into the side of the boys head, knocking him out cold. Pleased with himself, he went to catch up with Charlie.

Much later, they found themselves sitting in the hammock that hung between two trees in their shared back yard, passing a bottle of whiskey between them. "I had it all under control. I didn't need your help," she told him as she handed the bottle off.

"I know. Just because you can handle yourself doesn't mean a friend can't lend a hand from time to time," Bass replied. "Don't let what he said bother you, by the way. Fuckwads like that don't know what they're talking about."

Charlie spared him a sideways glance. "Are you seriously giving me a pep talk here?"

"Nope, just stating the obvious. I'm kinda good at that," he said, hoping she'd just move on.

They sat there in silence for quite some time—the moon and stars above the only illumination around them. It was still quite warm, so Bass paused the lazy swinging of the hammock by sitting up long enough to take off his shirt, leaving him in the old ratty wife beater he'd worn underneath.

He lounged back again and got them moving again, every so often pushing off the ground with his toe. It was comfortable just sitting here together, friends in their own memories and misery with the stars above them and no one about to expect them to be or act normal.

Miles was on both of them all the time—He wanted Charlie to settle down and build a life for herself. He wanted Bass to stop being a dick, stop drinking so much and move on from the past. It was like if he could get them to fix themselves that it meant he'd be okay too somehow. Sadly, the man didn't know how exhausting they found it.

Charlie set the bottle between them, having had enough for the time being. She let herself go to the warm and fuzzy buzz she'd already accomplished. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of something metallic next to her. She turned her head and saw that it had been something hanging around Bass' neck.

Not bothering with personal space or boundaries, she reached over and picked up the metal plates that hung around his neck. "What's this?" she slurred.

Bass shrugged, feigning a casualness that he didn't quite feel. "My dog tags—from when I was a marine."

"You still have them?" she asked, amazed.

"Yep."

"Miles lost his years ago—he told me they fell in a river. How'd you keep yours?"

He chuckled. "Miles could lose a blue whale in a bathtub."

"He is pretty bad, isn't he?" She giggled, her buzzed mind picturing his analogy perfectly.

Bass looked down and considered the tags that dangled from her fingers. The contact left him feeling a little awkward, so he pulled the chain over his head so she could hold them. "I don't know why I always wore them—even when we went AWOL after the power went out."

"You had them on even at the tower?" she asked, wincing when she brought that place up. It was not a happy memory for any of them, and for the sake of avoiding resentments none of them brought it up.

"Mm-hmm. Now that I think about it, I guess it was pretty stupid to keep them after that. Having your name hanging around your neck isn't the best way to hide your identity."

"You may have a point there," she allowed. "Did you always want to be a marine?"

Bass sighed as he thought about how to respond to the question. He was drunk so despite the effort, his filter wasn't quite on. "No, that was Miles' deal—his way of getting his old man off his back." When she sent him a confused look, he elaborated. "Your grandfather kept insisting that Miles do something with his life—it was a few years after we graduated and he was still slumming around Jasper, making a nuisance of himself."

"And you just decided to follow him?" she asked, curious.

"No. I was in college when he decided to enlist."

Charlie almost fell out of the hammock laughing. "You? College? Now why is it that I can't see that?" she asked when she'd gotten it under control.

"Hey now," Bass replied in mock offense. "I wasn't always just another drunk—I was a smart drunk once."

"What did you study?"

"History—that wasn't why I was there though," Bass said.

Charlie watched as his expression changed. He looked up at the stars, but she could tell he was a million miles away just then. "So why then?"

"Baseball. I went to Indiana to play baseball—they gave me a full ride too."

"Huh?"

"A scholarship—they paid for my tuition and room and board. I majored in history because it was the only subject that didn't bore the shit out of me, but I was gonna play baseball forever."

Charlie could see the way his face lit up when he talked about it. He told her all about how his only goal in life was to keep his grades up to keep on the team. He'd even been the starting catcher the entire second half of the season and had remained so all the way through the last game of the finals. His team had lost due to an error the third baseman had made in the last inning, but he'd been on it.

His coach had told him as much and he'd promised that Bass would start the next season too. There'd been a few scouts for the minors there and they'd seen him play. Because of his scholarship, they weren't allowed to approach him until after he graduated, but they'd be watching him for the rest of his college career. If he was lucky, scouts from the majors would hear about him as well.

That had been young Bass' big dream. He'd wanted to play baseball. So, while Miles drifted from one crappy minimum wage job to another to pay for his shitty little trailer in the most run down part of town, Bass had been playing ball and studying hard.

"So what happened?" she asked. "Did you get hurt or something?"

"Not exactly."

Charlie arched a brow at him, waiting for him to elaborate. "I got into a shoving match with a cop. Got arrested, popped for a DWI—drunk driving, and I lost my scholarship and got kicked off the team," he explained.

"Funny thing was, I wasn't even driving; Emma was. She'd just gotten accepted into Northwestern and she was gonna finally get out of Jasper, so I picked the fight and took the fall for her."

Charlie knew that Emma Bennett was Connor's mother. Miles had also told her that she'd been his fiancé when she and Bass had created their son. Bass' story stunned her and she was rendered speechless. Coming back to the present, Bass turned his head to look at her.

"Turned out it was all for nothing," he continued bitterly. "She never made it to school—not that any of us knew why at the time."

"Why would you do that for someone?" she asked. She was sure that what he'd told her was true—there was no point in lying when Miles could verify it one way or another. What she didn't get was his reason behind it at the time.

Bass locked eyes with her in the moonlight. "Because when you love someone, that's what you do—you risk everything to make sure they're okay. You do it and you don't think twice, even when you know you're gonna fuck your own life up in the process."

Charlie slipped he chain back over his head and leaned back next to him. They reverted back to total silence and watched the stars, her head cocked to the side and resting ever so lightly on his shoulder…

**July 10, 2030**

__They were sitting around camp, nowhere in particular to be for the time being. They'd gotten to their rendezvous a day early. They were only an hour's ride away and so until tomorrow morning, there was little to do but wait.

Miles was lying on his bedroll in the shade, bored to tears and Bass was still sitting with his lunch in his lap. Charlie was sorting through their gear, having decided that Miles had packed it with both eyes shut and a hangover.

"I'm telling you, just ask her out already," Bass said as he took another bite. While the others were eating, he'd taken advantage of a nearby stream to cool off and so was a bit behind the other two. "She seems nice enough."

"We're just _friends_," Miles insisted from his spot in the shade. "I don't think Melissa's even interested anyway."

Bass and Charlie shared an amused look. "Oh really?" she piped up. "So you're saying showing up at your door with supper when we've been on a job isn't interest?"

Melissa Gray's brother, John had reopened the bar with her after the war. It had closed after Marion's death and had remained that way until the siblings had moved into town the previous December. Despite his claims of just being friendly, Miles made it a point to show up on the nights she worked late and she'd been following him around town for the past several weeks.

It was obvious to everyone, except maybe Miles. That man was remaining deliberately obtuse when it came to the pretty bartender and they all knew it. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he snapped.

"Give it up, dumbass," Bass grinned.

"Shut up."

Charlie intervened before the two started to bicker again—they'd been at it since they'd left Willoughby and while it was all in good fun, it was too hot and humid for it to not have gotten on her nerves. She wisely chose another tactic—serious conversation.

"You don't have to keep holding out because of Mom," she said quietly. "It won't hurt me, and we both know she'd have wanted you to move on and be happy."

They went back and forth after that for quite a while before Miles finally agreed to make a move, if only to shut the two of them up. "I don't know why you're so interested in my love life—you've got your own to worry about, dick," he snapped.

"Huh?" Bass looked up from his almost empty plate.

"Oh, you didn't tell him?" Miles asked Charlie, now becoming amused.

"Tell me what?" He spoke warily, having a feeling that he wasn't going to like where this was headed.

"Oh nothing. It's just that my friend Heather has been asking about you lately," Charlie said with a grin.

"Who?"

"You know, Heather Matthews?"

"Joe's kid?" Bass asked, still not getting it. "Why the hell would she ask about me?"

Charlie and Miles both burst out laughing. "You're an idiot," Charlie said. "And she's not a kid—she's a year older than I am." She didn't know why, but the idea that he saw someone her age that way bothered her. Not that she'd make a big deal out if it, _especially_ in front of Miles.

"She's _Joe's_ daughter. That's just wrong somehow."

"Since when is Sebastian Monroe, legendary man-whore worried about something like that?" Charlie teased.

Bass almost did a double take. "Charlie, are you trying to set me up?"

She kept a smile plastered on her face. That wasn't exactly what she was doing. She wouldn't have said anything at all if Miles hadn't brought it up—okay and there was the small fact that Heather had asked her to feel the whole thing out (weeks ago, and she hadn't gotten around to it yet). "Of course not. Just making conversation," she said with a shrug.

"Hmm.. Heather Matthews," he murmured as if he was taking the idea for a test drive in his mind. "Never thought about it before…"

Charlie got up and went to put the bag she'd been repacking back into the wagon. "Watch it when you get up. There's a snake like a foot away from you—three o'clock," she said as she passed by him.

What happened next wasn't his fault, exactly. Bass' brain received information that it did not like and the end result was an instinctual response to the signals his brain sent out to the rest of his body. Later, thanks to the lack of functioning video recording technology, he'd deny it even happened, no matter how many times his companions insisted otherwise.

Bass shot up off the stump he'd been sitting on with all the grace of an eleven-year old girl, sending the tin plate in his lap flying as he did so. He looked where she'd indicated and of course, there was nothing there—not that it mattered at that point; the damage had already been done.

"You were right; that was too easy," Charlie grinned as she took her seat.

Bass bent down and picked up a small rock, chucking it at his so-called friend. "Do you _have_ to tell everybody?" To be fair, he'd made it through all of his years as General Monroe without a single soldier under him ever discovering that snakes were indeed on the very short list of things that truly scared the living shit out of him (dying alone and permanent sobriety being the only other two things on that list).

However, Miles seemed to take a certain perverse pleasure in making up for all those years of secrecy by telling everyone he came across now. "Bass, it's just a snake—not like it can hurt you."

"You know a phobia is called an irrational fear for a reason, asshole." He glared at them. Miles and Charlie were now howling with laughter, more than pleased with themselves than ever. "I hate you both," he snapped—and then bit his lip to keep from grinning in spite of himself.

**July 18, 2030**

Charlie stared across the bar and watched Bass from her vantage point at the small table in the corner. It was "their" table—the one that always seemed to be empty and waiting when they were in town. Tonight, Miles had opted not to join them. Melissa Grey was not working this evening and he'd decided to invite her over for dinner.

Bass was leaning casually on the bar, drink in hand. Heather Matthews stood next to him batting her eyes and smiling up at him like any young woman on a mission. Bass had just gotten up to get them another round when she'd walked in. Typically, she only came in the bar when Charlie dragged her out, but it seemed that after weeks of asking about her uncle's surrogate brother, her friend had finally worked up the nerve to talk to him without Charlie's help.

As she watched them chat, Charlie suddenly began to regret the moment she'd mentioned the girl's interested to Miles. If she hadn't, he wouldn't have teased Bass with it, which wouldn't have put the idea in the man's mind. _His he really interested? Would he even have noticed her if I'd have kept my big mouth shut? _Instantly, she felt a pang of guilt at the direction her thoughts were headed.

Heather _was_ her friend after all. And she really was a pretty, smart and sweet person—she was just brave enough to stick up for herself, but not quite as careless because of it (unlike Charlie). Bass was her friend too. Despite his protests to the opposite, she knew he was lonely.

He was lonely, insecure about his past and needed someone gentle enough to soothe his wounds, but strong enough not to take his crap either. Charlie may be the latter, but the former? Well, no one ever accused her of being gentle.

And on top of that, he was Bass—she was Charlie. That's all there was to it. She didn't have any claim there and it wasn't like he'd ever see her as anything other than Miles' niece at any rate. On top of that, she wasn't really reconciled with wanting him to either.

Gary Rice, one of the regulars that Melissa's brother hired to play in the bar had pulled out his guitar and was tuning it up from his perch on a stool at the end of the bar. Music was eminent and from the look on Heather's face, every fiber of her being was hoping to get a certain former general-dictator to dance with her.

Gary began to play as Charlie continued to pretend that she wasn't watching. _Why shouldn't he dance with her? She's pretty and he likes pretty things, right? What guy doesn't? She isn't scarred; she isn't just a bit too brittle or too mouthy…_

She forced her thoughts away from them. She wasn't going to bother with worrying about it any longer. She was a lot of things, but petty sure as hell wasn't one of them. Instead, she focused on the music that filled the room and let it drown her thoughts out. When she was sure no one was paying attention to her, she closed her eyes (blissfully blocking out the sight of Bass leading Heather onto the makeshift dance floor) and began to sway to the music in her chair.

She'd grown up hearing people lament about the loss of recorded music. She'd also heard of huge concerts where people would spend a small fortune if they had to just to hear their favorite bands play live. Live music had been the novelty before the cd players stopped working.

Maggie had once told her that she'd had hundreds of dollars of digital downloads on her iPhone—whatever those were. People would play music whenever they wanted, both when alone and when they were out with friends.

Having only a distant memory of music that wasn't played right then and there, Charlie was rather jealous of this concept of private music. If she could listen to whatever she wanted in the privacy of her own home, she'd do it whenever she got the chance. To be able to get up and dance without the entire town staring her down like she was a lunatic—that would be something…

Bass looked up and let his gaze flick to where Charlie sat alone at the corner table. He felt a certain longing to be able to join her. As it was, the Matthews girl had accosted him and was now doing her best to keep his attention directed on her.

Despite the fact that he'd teased Charlie about it, he really had no interest in her. Sure, she was cute, but she wasn't what he was looking for (not that he was really looking for anything). A girl like Heather needed a nice, boring townie that would take care of her and was happy to sit around and bounce babies on his knee and go to work every morning and come home by dinner time. That wasn't him. Maybe at one point it could have been, but any thoughts of that kind of future had been dead for a long time now.

The young woman was decent and didn't need a man with as many issues as he in her life. He got it—good girls liked bad boys. It was a story as old as mankind. And, if Willoughby had someone that fit that definition, it was definitely him. That didn't mean that he went for the "good girls."

He liked his women just a little rough around the edges. They needed to have a little bite if they were going to put up with him and excite him. There was something to be said for a soft, loving woman, but it wasn't for him. He didn't want to be coddled and pampered with supper on the table at five every night and so on. If he ever let another woman in his life (and that was a big if) she had to be a bit stronger than that. In short, he had eyes and could acknowledge she was attractive, but he didn't _feel_ attracted to her.

Bass felt bad, but he couldn't even focus on what the young woman was saying. He'd caught his mind wandering more than once and it kept happening. She looked at him expectedly, and he didn't know if he was supposed to respond or not.

"Wanna dance?" he asked out of self-preservation.

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree, his misstep was immediately forgotten. "Sure!" Heather replied, her excitement barely contained.

It took every ounce of willpower to not visibly wince. His lack of interest didn't mean he wanted to be a dick about it; he sure as hell didn't want to lead her on. _Dammit. _

Despite his best efforts to make an entire muck of the whole situation, he led her to where several other couples were now dancing. The universe was finally acting in his favor; the song was just slow enough to dance to and just fast enough that Heather hopefully wouldn't get the wrong idea.

The music was also just the right tempo that he wouldn't make an ass out of himself. Sure, long ago he'd had no problem working his way from woman to the next at some night club or another, drunk and happy to look like a complete (and confident) fool. That was a whole other world from now, however.

He could count on one hand the times he'd been forced to dance since the power had gone out, and he'd die a happy man if he could get away with leaving this earth only adding a few more to the count. Regretting his impulsive mouth, he led her into the dance and hoped he'd come out of it unscathed.

Bass kept his hands quite firmly planted on the equator (much to Heather's obvious disappointment) and he made sure that hers didn't wander. When the song. When the song changed he led her back to the bar and that was that. When she alluded to wanting to dance again later, he told her as tactfully as he could that it wasn't really his thing. They chatted for a few more minutes, mostly about safe topics, such as her father, how old Bass was getting (he hated pointing his age out, but desperate times called for desperate measures) and so on.

Once Heather got the hint that she'd been firmly and officially placed in the friend zone, she thanked him for the dance and paid her tab, eager to take her leave. Bass felt bad, but he breathed a sigh of relief all the same. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her feelings, and he hoped she'd get over it soon. There weren't a lot of people in Willoughby that didn't wish him to the devil, so it seemed a pity to hurt one of the few that actually went out of their way to feel welcome in the town…

_The following day…_

Bass was brought to life the next morning when someone quite rudely tipped the hammock, sending him sprawling onto the ground. He'd fallen into the habit of crashing out here when he couldn't sleep (your welcome, Charlie), or when he was simply too drunk to bother going inside. The previous night, it was really a combination of the two.

After he'd gone back to their table, Charlie had started acting weird. When they'd walked home together after the bar closed, she'd wordlessly gone into her unit, slamming the door behind her without so much as a "Good night," leaving him confused.

He now stared up at her slightly annoyed form as she stood over him, hands on her hips. "Well good morning to you too," he said as he rubbed his bleary eyes.

"My pump's jammed up," she told him.

"And you're waking me up for this because?" he asked.

"Because you're my landlord," she said with a shrug.

Bass slowly got to his feet and stretched to work the kinks out of his back. "That's just a technicality, seeing as how you don't actually pay rent," he reminded her.

"You gonna fix it or not?"

He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. The morning was already starting out hot. That was not a good way to start a hangover, to be sure. "Yeah, give me a minute and I'll be over."

An hour later, he found himself tinkering with the damn thing. Like many houses in town, the building now drew its water from a nearby well. If there was one thing that Texas had been good for in the early days of the blackout, it had been making sure that people had access to water. It was probably one of the reasons why they'd been so successful to begin with.

The duplex had even been outfitted with pumps. Of course, the sinks didn't drain into a septic system—they weren't that lucky (and it had been the reason the building had come so cheaply). The pumps were a nice bonus, however.

Bass was underneath the sink, trying to figure out why the damn thing wasn't working. It hadn't been the handle—that was moving just fine. There seemed to be an issue with it creating the pressure needed to draw the water. That suggested the pipe was blocked somehow.

"Hand me that wrench, would you?" he asked, holding his hand out. He yelped when Charlie dropped it, rather than just putting it in his hand. "Watch it!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, feigning innocence.

Bass scooted out for a second—that cabinet was getting stuffy at any rate. "Something on your mind?"

"You and Heather seemed awfully friendly last night," she commented. Her back was now turned to him and she was rummaging through her cabinets under the pretense of getting breakfast started. "What was that all about?"

"Huh? Nothing—just a dance."

Charlie didn't believe him for a second and she didn't bother to hide that fact. "Really?"

He caught that there was a certain edginess to the way she'd said it. "What's eating you?"

"Not a thing," Charlie replied. "It's just—maybe she's not right for you."

Bass couldn't believe his ears. Shaking his head in disbelief at the absurdity of the conversation, he grabbed the wrench and ducked back under the sink so he could get back to work. "One, it was just a dance—I didn't ask the girl to marry me. Two, you're then one that suggested I should look that direction in the first place."

"I only said she was asking about you. I never said you should do something about it," she insisted as she took a seat at the kitchen table, stretching her legs out in front of her so she could watch him work.

Bass finished opening up the pipe and set the wrench down. His morning got even better when the damn thing dumped what little water it was holding all over his face. He sputtered and reappeared, reaching up to the counter above him and grabbing a dish towel to dry his face. "You're impossible sometimes, you know that?"

A few minutes later he'd found what was wrong. The thing had been rigged using the original pipes going in and out of the house. It relied on building back pressure from the original drain pipe—and that had been blocked off by a cork that must have fallen down the drain. "You've got a fucking cork in the pipe," he snapped as he came out, cursing as he hit his head on the cabinet.

"I wonder how that got down there," she mused.

Bass narrowed his eyes at her. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought she'd done it on purpose. Since she'd just seen him the night before, he was willing to bet it had worked just fine the day before. "Host an after party of one last night?" he asked her.

"I might have finished off that bottle you left here last week. Guess I dropped the cork. Oops."

Bass was able to remove the cork and get the pipe back together again. He tested the pump to be sure and then started collecting the tools he'd brought over. Right before he left he turned back to her one last time. "Not that it's any concern of yours, but I made sure she knew I wasn't interested. She's not my type and I'm not exactly boyfriend material."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Because I've got too much baggage for anyone, let alone an innocent girl like that." He decided to let her stew on that for a while. Before she even had a chance to respond, he went back to his own unit to see to his own breakfast and get the rest of the day started…

**A/N part 2: Some of this may have seemed a bit campy and a bit pointless, but most of it will come up later. The idea for the hammock conversation had come from a deleted scene from season 1, episode 15 between Young Bass and Young Emma. I haven't seen it personally (I don't own the dvd for that season), but I'd read enough about it to get the gist. The scene is a conversation right before they do the deed where she asks him why he'd shoved a cop. He tells her because it was better for him to lose his baseball scholarship than for her to lose hers to Northwestern. Indiana University is in the Big 10 for baseball, so that's where I decided he was going to go. **

**For some reason, my head cannon says that Emma was a few years younger than they were. By season 2 Bass and Miles were supposed to be 46-47 and Connor was supposed to be around 25. That meant that Bass would have been at least 20 when he slept with her. If her parents had made her hide Connor, one would assume she was 17 or 18 at the time—most 20 year old women wouldn't be as easily coerced, I would think (or maybe I was just that independent at that age?), so that's why I'd put him having actually gone to school.**

**Anyway, not really all that important, but that's why I put it in there. I also wanted to establish that that they'd become fairly good friends by the time that the plot begins to unfold and that Miles is comfortable with that friendship. There is also an underlying tension there, obviously. **

**All three of our main characters are carry their own damage—Charlie and Bass' have physical scars to match their internal ones (war is hell, after all). Miles is not unscathed on the inside as well. Each little section (or part of a section) is from someone else's point of view just to again, establish character. Some of this story is probably OOC, but then again, we don't know how their characters would have developed going into the third season if there had been one.**

**I hope that this chapter has not seemed too long or boring or unnecessary. The next one will be less dialog and more plot (and will have some giggles…)**


	3. Twists of Fate Will Change Your Life

**October 3, 2030, Austin…**

"Are you fucking serious?" Bass asked, not even bothering to hide his displeasure to the man that technically was his employer. "You want to whore us out now?"

Frank Blanchard just sat back at his desk, hands folded and resting on his chest, his bemusement clearly on display. There was just enough antagonism lingering from the days when both former leaders of the Monroe Republic were trying to kill him that he still enjoyed watching them squirm. Well, he enjoyed watching his former counterpart squirm. Miles was a tougher nut to crack and so he rarely bothered.

"Why not? You got something better to do? I've run out of errands for you two idiots for the time being," he said, unable to contain his glee as he watched Bass seethe.

He could tell that Bass was about to tell him to go fuck himself. Frank waited until he was at the door before continuing. "Besides, they're offering a hell of a lot more than I do.

Bass froze with his hand on the doorknob. "How much more?"

_**In a bar, a few blocks away and a few hours later…**_

Miles and Charlie looked up when the door to the bar flung open, banging against the wall behind it. Everyone in the bar turned in that direction, actually. Bass stormed in, looking around and finding them immediately.

"You look happy," Miles drawled as he signaled to the bartender to pour Bass a drink.

Bass pulled up a stool and sat down. He accepted the whiskey from the man behind the bar and immediately downed it. He pointed to the glass, indicating that it should be refilled. "Blanchard is pimping us out now," he snapped.

Miles shrugged and waited for him to elaborate. Personally, he didn't care one way or another— as long as they got paid. Unlike Bass, he didn't suffer from an overabundance of pride. "So, who's our temporary employer?"

"The fucking church," he replied with disgust. "We're supposed to escort some Friar Tuck wannabe through the plains so he can reclaim them in the name of Jesus. They wanna pay us fifteen to get him there, plus expenses."

His glass empty once more, he snapped his fingers to get the bartender's attention. "The nerve of that fucking paper pushing pervert. We're not fucking delivery boys—and girl," he continued, amending his words to include Charlie. He knew it annoyed the hell out of her to be treated like a tag-a-long. For some reason, Blanchard had been doing just that ever since Bass had joined their little enterprise.

Miles practically spat out his whiskey in shock. "Fifteen? As in ounces?" His eyes widened further when Bass nodded in response. "Well, did you tell him we'd do it? Did you take the job?"

Bass turned around and glared at him. "Of course I took the fucking job. It's fifteen _ounces_ of diamonds, Numb-nuts."

Miles had wondered why Blanchard had requested Bass for the negotiations in this—just as he'd wondered why the man hadn't just sent orders to Willoughby as usual. They'd only had one or two jobs that were really all that sensitive. In those cases, they'd been summoned to Austin for briefing, but even then Miles had been the one to meet with the general.

Now, it was all making sense. Blanchard did seem to get off on riling Bass up—something Miles could appreciate. Still, he could have broken the news a little better. Bass was going to be a total bear to be around for the next few days.

Charlie had been watching them in silence up until now. She finally spoke. "You _do_ realize that means it's all profit, right? We've _never_ had expenses covered before. Quit your bitching—it's a goddamned fortune."

Bass went on to explain the details of the job. They had to take the guy to Montana, just south of what used to be Billings. One of the more peaceful native tribes was settled there. During the war, a few missionaries had been sent by the church to follow with the Rangers and offer what aid they could to the various tribes and clans that were affected by the war. The native tribes had been receptive to the possibility of receiving visits in the future, and apparently this kid had decided to take them up on it.

The trip itself would be a long one—over two months there and back. None of them could deny that five ounces a piece would set them up nice and pretty for a while. That kind of profit was unheard of, especially because the expenses for a longer trip were so high.

"Why not just take a train north to the outpost in Lincoln?" Charlie asked. It made sense, after all. With the supplies needed to get past that half of the journey, it would probably be cheaper too.

"According to Blanchard, this kid's determined to do this old school. Dumbass is insisting on going the long way and that's what we're being paid to do," Bass explained. He'd tried hard to convince Blanchard to force them to see to reason, but he'd been told that if they took the job, they'd do it the church's way or not at all.

With so much at stake, he'd shut his mouth after that. If they actually managed to get him there in one piece and get back again without getting themselves killed, they'd be damn near rich when they got home. Most people made maybe two ounces a year—and that's if they even dealt in hard currency at all.

Outside of the Rangers, most people in Texas dealt in trade only. The only major exceptions were criminals, whores and the very lucky. When they did have cash, it was usually old gold and silver coins.

The fact that the church even _had_ that much to burn was unbelievable. Then again, the Archdiocese was powerful and did a lot of dealings with the various other republics on behalf of Texas. Plus, with the length of the journey and all the dangers involved, they could be counting on not having to pay when if they didn't come back alive.

"So, when do we leave?" Miles asked when Bass was done briefing them.

"Three days. We're supposed to meet with this Bishop Allen guy tomorrow to go over expenses. His guy will get us everything we need," he said before finishing his last drink. "They're putting us in that dump down the road in the meantime."

With that, he got up and headed out of the bar. "Where the hell are you going?" Miles called after him.

"To find something to fight or fuck," he replied over his shoulder. From the tone in his voice, he didn't sound like he cared which one he found first.

Miles turned to look at Charlie, shooting her a meaningful look. When she didn't react he caught the bartender's attention, pointing to his empty glass. "Well, don't just sit there. Go make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble. I'm not losing out on all those diamonds because he's lost his temper and shoots somebody."

Charlie rolled her eyes, annoyed at having been elected to babysit. "Don't know why I have to be you're Bass' keeper," she griped. "He's your best friend—why don't you ever keep an eye on him?"

"Because that's what I have you for. Besides, sometimes I think he likes you better than me."

Charlie stopped in the street just outside the bar. It was late in the afternoon, but the streets were still packed. She didn't know the layout of the street that well, but she did know that the so-called red light district was on the western edge of town.

Figuring that's where he'd head, that's the direction she went. By the time she got there, it was just starting to get dark. She wandered the streets, poking her head into the various bars and inns that lined the street. She reached the end of the row and was running out of places to look.

The only two she hadn't checked were the whorehouses. She made a decision then—she was _not_ going to look for him there. The last thing she wanted to do was interrupt him there. Seeing him lead a whore off to take care of business was the last thing she wanted to see. Not to mention, she was pretty sure that interrupting such a venture would go beyond the boundaries of their friendship.

Charlie moved back down the street, her destination the inn that they'd be staying in while preparing for their trip north. If he was really with a woman, he'd be occupied the rest the night. If he was just out slumming it, she'd probably run into him eventually. Either way, she wasn't going to wait around for him much longer. She was almost out of the district when she noticed a small crowd gathering on one corner.

Curious, she joined them to see what was going on. A guy with a guitar had set up there. Leaning up against a long useless streetlight at the back of the crowd, she waited for him to start playing. At least she'd get something out of her unsuccessful venture. Within a few minutes of the music playing, she'd forgotten her entire reason for coming to this part of town in the first place.

"Following me?" a voice said from the shadows of a nearby alley, startling her.

Charlie followed its source to see Bass there, leaning up against the brick wall of one of the buildings, not ten feet away from her. "Miles seemed to think you were going to do something stupid and fuck up the job," she said.

Bass pushed himself off the wall and approached her. It was obvious that he was not willing to discuss the fact that he'd been so pissed or what he'd been doing since he'd stomped out of that bar. She could tell, however, that he was still wound rather tight. That suggested that while he'd calmed down a little, he'd achieved neither of the two goals he'd had in mind when he'd left.

"Come on, I'll walk you to the inn," he said.

Charlie bristled a little. "I can take care of myself. I don't need an escort or a babysitter," she told him.

"Says the girl that's taken it upon herself to babysit _me_," he remarked. He was not going to take "no" for an answer, however and grabbed her by the elbow. "I know you can handle yourself, but humor me. We've got an early start tomorrow and things'll go a lot easier if we don't have to go looking for you."

Charlie wrenched herself free. "I said I'm fine. I'm not ready to leave yet. Don't let me stop you from your whoring and stupidity."

Bass let her go, hands raised in surrender. "Fine, stay here; I'm heading back," he spat. "See if I ever bother to give a shit about what happens to you again. Not like it's ever brought me anything other than grief."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She asked, confused by his sudden change in attitude. He didn't answer, just kept walking down the street. "Damn it. Wait up!"

They were almost there before Charlie broke the silence. "So what happened to your plans for the evening? Hookers all booked up? No one to pick a fight with?"

"That hell hole didn't have what I was looking for," was all he said as he opened the door to the inn, holding it open for her.

"Oh really? And what's that," Charlie asked as she sailed past him.

Bass sighed heavily and followed her inside. "I'll be damned if I know."

He waited for Charlie to disappear into her room before going back outside. He hadn't been lying before—he'd gone to that side of town with every intention of finding either a clean whore or a face to punch.

After visiting both brothels, he'd left empty-handed and all the more frustrated. He'd had his pick—he might be getting older, but he was good looking enough that with diamonds to burn, he'd get what he'd wanted. The problem had been there hadn't been anything there that sparked his interest. There were one or two that looked like they hadn't been in the trade long and were pretty enough, but the desire wasn't there.

Sure, he'd have been able to get his body to cooperate, but why waste the money if it involved so much effort on his part? That wasn't what they were for. Hookers were there to scratch an itch and nothing more. Having to force himself to get into it was almost as humiliating as feeling the need to hire one in the first place.

And so, he'd left and had just wandered around for a bit. He'd still been entertaining the idea of picking a fight just for the hell of it when he'd come across Charlie. Of course Bass had immediately figured out that Miles must have sent her after him. They were friends, but she always did her best not to pry or interfere when he'd gone prowling about in the past. Why would she start now?

No, Miles must have thought he'd needed a babysitter. The idea of it was insulting and went far to deflate his ego. That in turn, reduced his need for action in the first place. He should have been pissed, really but it had had the opposite effect.

If Miles had sent Charlie to that cesspool, it had meant that Bass wasn't fooling anyone. Miles had been pestering him, so he' d been doing his best over the past few months to just pretend he was fine—to fake it till he made it. The alternative was to have his friend constantly ask how he was doing. Was he okay?

Of course he wasn't okay. His kid was dead, his men had been more eager to torture him than let him lead them against the Patriots and he made his living being sent on fool's errands for Old Walnuts himself. He'd quit out of the principle of the thing but what else was he supposed to do with his time?

The only two people in the world that gave a damn if he was still breathing or not were in Willoughby, so he didn't really have anyplace else to go. The town being so small, there weren't exactly a lot of job prospects to be had. Even if there were, who the hell wanted to hire Sebastian Monroe? For that matter, what else was he really good at?

Feeling low, he made his way back to the bar that he'd met Charlie and Miles in after his annoying encounter with Blanchard. Miles was no longer there, which told Bass that he'd gone back to the inn. He sauntered up to the bar and ordered a drink, pretending as always that all was right in his world.

As he sat there, he feigned obliviousness to the fact that one of the local women was shooting him "come hither" looks from across the bar. He was in no mood for it now. He just wanted to get buzzed enough to fall asleep and get back to the inn before Charlie and Miles realized he wasn't there.

Over the past few months, Miles had been on him about his nighttime activities with annoying regularity. He'd been seeing Melissa Grey steadily and it had really helped Miles heal after everything that had happened. To be honest, Bass was happy for him. Rachel had always seemed to be able to tie the man's emotions up in knots and Bass had resented her for it, to be sure. Melissa was different.

She didn't make Miles feel like shit for his own checkered past and didn't expect more of him than he was willing to give. Bass could actually stand her too, which made things easier when they were all together.

In fact, the only thing that he didn't like about her was the fact that she'd decided that Bass was too lonely and needed someone. Somehow she'd decided that since he was her boyfriend's friend his life was now her business. She'd made it her mission to set him up with her cousin and had recruited Miles to help her.

Jessica Grey Branneky lived in a nearby town and was about as frightened as a mouse. Miles had told Bass that the Patriots had killed her husband and son when they'd spread one of their designer diseases throughout Crockett. That particular one had been yellow fever and just like the typhus in Willoughby, it had only killed those that they'd deemed "impure."

Jessica had found out that a family friend had been a Patriot in disguise and had told his superiors that her husband and child were both dyslexic. Such an innocuous thing really, to mix up one's letters. It was considered a learning disability, however and therefore they'd been added to the list.

The loss had resulted in her being a highly suspicious and nervous woman. She was convinced (and probably right) that there were still Patriots in hiding and she questioned everyone—including people she'd known her entire life.

Convinced that Bass would put Jessica at ease, Miles and Melissa had forced him to dinner one night. The woman was attractive, sure. Maybe in another life he'd have been interested in her too. She was still a good ten years younger than Bass—young enough to start over maybe, but not too young to make their age differences stand out.

The entire evening had been awkward and uncomfortable for him. He hadn't wanted to meet her—especially after hearing of her past. He didn't want to be some twisted knight in shining armor for her, or a Band-Aid for her tattered and bleeding heart.

Miles had insisted that he give her a shot. After all, they had a lot in common, right? A dead kid and spouse? Well, he didn't want to swap dead family stories. Talking about it might make her life better, but it wasn't something he was ready to do. The idea of it just made him feel shittier—especially considering the fact that he still felt like the Patriot invasion had been his fault in a lot of ways. Just another person whose life had been made worse by the monster of Independence Hall.

Bass continued to sit there and drink, forcing these thoughts away. Thinking of the "blind date from hell" only reminded him that he'd never be normal or whole. He was who he was and no matter how much he'd tried to change it, it wasn't going to go away any time soon. He just wished that Miles would finally learn to accept it.

Two hours later, he paid his tab and stumbled back to the inn. He was nicely buzzed and the dour thoughts that had plagued him earlier had finally faded away enough that he was sure he could sleep. He went upstairs to his room, unaware that his friends had watched him return from Charlie's window.

**December 6, 2030**

Charlie and Bass were picking their way through the trees towards what they hoped would be a viable place to hole up for the night. The openness of the plains made it difficult to find safe places to camp, especially when the clans were on the move for the winter. Because the weather in the Rockies was so unpredictable this time of year, they'd been forced to take the long way home.

For the most part, they'd been following the Platte River. Long ago, the U.S. Forest Service had planted several Cottonwood forests to be used for recreational hunting and camping. Over the years, with a drastically reduced population and no one to tend them, they'd slowly spread until they practically covered every damn river bank in the state. Being such fast growing trees, a good portion of Nebraska was actually taken over by them now.

So far, the trip had gone relatively well, all things considered. Their newly ordained charge had been a pain in the ass and a shitty traveler, but he was not their problem now. They'd gotten him there safely, and now carried a message from him to Bishop Allen stating exactly that.

All they had to do now was get back to Austin in one piece and get paid. Over the past weeks, they were all mentally spending the money already. Miles had been talking about maybe using it to invest in some business or another in town—he'd listed dozens of different things he could be doing other than traipsing all over the continent with the two of them.

"I just don't get it—it's all he's talked about," Charlie commented. "Why would he want to quit?"

"He's just bitching—It's Miles. You're reading too much into it," he replied. More than likely, that was bullshit, but Bass refused to consider the alternative a viable possibility.

Sensing that he believed his words as little as she did, Charlie changed the subject. "So, what are you going to do with your pay?" she asked playfully.

"I dunno. Booze and hookers? Well, _better_ booze and hookers, anyway."

Charlie shook her head in disgust. "Do you _ever_ think about anything else?"

"Sweetheart, you're lucky I don't think about anything else—who knows what I'd come up with if I did? Trust me, the world's much safer this way," he said.

They continued to pick their way through the trees. Miles had sent them to scout ahead and was currently waiting with the wagon not far off the main road. Out of nowhere, Bass could have sworn he'd heard a muffled whimper a short distance away. He stilled and closed his eyes, listening. When he heard it again, he raised a hand up for Charlie to stop.

The third time, he knew where it was coming from. The look on her face told him that Charlie had also caught on. Silently, they crept in the direction of the noise. In a small clearing, they saw a camp that had been setup. From their vantage point, they could see two bodies lying unnaturally in the rotting leaves in what was left of a small encampment.

A movement to their right caught Charlie's eye. They got as close as they could without being detected. Just then, what appeared to be a rather large clansman came into view. He was zipping up his jeans and looked awfully pleased with himself.

There appeared to be only four of them—those were odds they could deal with if they were careful. Bass already had his gun drawn, but waited for Charlie to load her crossbow. She took aim and released a bolt, taking down one of the raiders. Before his friends knew what happened, he hit the ground, the bolt now sticking out of his chest.

Bass waited no time. Pulling the trigger he took down a second man. The other two froze, still trying to figure out where the attack had come from. While Charlie reloaded her crossbow, Bass took his second shot. Just as the warrior hit the ground, his friend started to take off. Charlie's bolt stopped him in his tracks.

It had been almost too easy, which meant that the clansmen hadn't been on their game. That meant that either they'd gotten lazy or that the rest of their clan was close enough that they hadn't been worried. Regardless of the answer, Bass wasn't too keen on waiting around long enough to find out. "Let's get going—there could be more and they'd have heard the shots," he told her quietly.

Charlie ignored him. Despite his protest, she crashed into the camp and looked around. A soft sobbing came from off to one side of the camp. She wasted no time following the sound. Bass trailed behind her and checked to make sure that the raiders were indeed dead. Satisfied with their immediate safety, he went to each of the two bodies that the clansmen had left behind.

Sure enough, they'd been killed—Bass hadn't really expected otherwise. He followed Charlie, finding her kneeling next to a young woman. He dropped down into a crouch next to them. He could tell just by looking at her that her fate would be to follow her companions. She was bleeding and her clothes were torn. They must have walked in on the tail end of her assault and they'd done a number on her.

Charlie struggled out of her coat to use it to cover the woman. Bass grabbed her arm and stopped her. Instead, he used his own. When her eyes grew wide with fear, he did what he could to put her at ease. "It's okay; we're not gonna hurt you."

The woman tried to talk but was having trouble. She'd been badly beaten before her assault. Bass shook his head when Charlie looked at him questioningly. There was no point to trying to take her back with them—the poor creature was fading fast.

She finally got one word out before losing consciousness. "Tent…"

Charlie stood, her face stricken and looked around the camp. The tent was definitely not big enough for three adults—it was barely big enough for one. Bass watched as she approached it, looking as if she was in a daze.

She had to crawl into it—it was barely more than a pup tent, really. She disappeared for a few moments. When she backed out of it, she carried a small bundle in her arms. She got up and just stood there, holding the bundle awkwardly.

"What is it?" he asked. The mewling sounds coming from Charlie's arms already answered his question, but he still asked it all the same.

"It's- It's a baby," she stammered.

Bass went back to the mother and tried to rouse her. When she remained unresponsive, he checked her pulse. She was already gone. He picked up his jacket, feeling bad for leaving her so uncovered. He needed it, however and she no longer was alive to care about the state of her undress. He looked at Charlie, his voice solemn "We've gotta get out of here before their friends show up. Grab everything you can."

They raced through the woods back to the wagon and Miles, bags and backpacks full to the brim. Charlie carried the now screaming child, Bass carried damn near everything else.

"What happened?" Miles asked when they came crashing out of the trees.

Without a word, Bass tossed his burdens into the back of the wagon and then turned to help Charlie into it. He climbed up onto the driver's bench and picked up the reins. "We gotta go," was all he said. As soon as Miles joined him, he flicked the reins and got the horses moving.

All he cared about now was putting as much distance between them and that camp as he could. A screaming baby would go a long way towards revealing their location to anyone that might be in the area. There was a chance that those men had just been drifters—many of the clans had been eradicated during the war and what was left had either moved on, joined together to form new clans or just existed as small bands of bandits to anyone foolish enough to travel the plains unprotected.

By the looks of the men they'd killed, it was probably that. Still, it was too risky to just make that assumption. He set a grueling pace, pushing the horses as much as he could while Charlie tried to get the baby to quiet down.

"What the _hell_ happened?" Miles asked again.

"A camp got hit—two men and a woman and _that_," he explained, tilting his head back to gesture towards the back of the wagon. "We took them out, but the mother died; they all died."

"How many were there?"

"Four. Who knows if they've got friends? They were definitely part of a war clan, but that doesn't mean shit these days."

Miles nodded in understanding. He fell back into silence and went back to scanning the road behind them for signs they were being followed. Bass kept the horses moving through the night, stopping only when he and the horses were too exhausted to keep going.

The sun was just beginning to rise when he finally pulled off the road in another copes of trees and bushes. The entire time, the baby had wailed. Charlie had done everything she could to quiet it, but had no luck.

"I think it's wet or something," she said as she clambered down from the wagon. "Probably hungry too."

She was jiggling the baby, desperately hoping it'd calm down and stop the racket. They'd put a lot of distance behind them, but it was still dangerous. On top of that, she had a splitting headache.

"We brought everything we could find," she added as she walked over to Miles. Bass was already rooting through the bags they'd brought with them from the camp, trying to find the one that he'd seen Charlie throw assorted baby items in.

She tried to pass the baby off to her uncle, but he backed up, hands raised in front of him. "No way. I don't do babies," he said, sounding terrified.

Breaking all laws of physics, the child somehow managed to get louder. Charlie couldn't take it anymore. She stomped over to Bass and thrust the child at him. "Take it before I go crazy," she snapped.

"Wait, I—"Having little other choice, Bass took the wailing creature, his protest cut short. They were immediately treated to pure, perfect silence. Miles and Charlie just stood and stared at the pair, completely dumfounded.

Bass looked down at his burden, confused. Looking back up at him were the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, the cheeks below them still wet and red with tears. The baby seemed to be watching him curiously and then it smiled at him.

Bass actually flinched when this happened. "Hurry up and get its stuff," he said. He didn't know why, but he was suddenly very uncomfortable with everything about this child.

Charlie went back to the wagon and dug through the bags until she found what she was looking for. "Got it!" she said triumphantly.

Bass went to hand the baby back, but Charlie refused to take it. Instead, she shoved the bag at him. "You're fucking joking, right?"

"Baby likes you," she said, shrugging her shoulders innocently. She went back to the wagon and helped Miles grab everything they'd need to set up camp. "Besides, someone needs to find something to feed it."

He was left alone to use the back of the wagon as a changing table. "Guys, this isn't funny!" he called after them as they walked away, laughing. "Aw, come on! Guys?" They'd disappeared into the trees, but Bass could still hear Miles' cackle.

He looked back down at the tiny creature in his arms. "I hope you're enjoying this," he grumbled as the baby cooed at him. He set it down in the back of the wagon and went to work. The blankets that had been wrapped around it were now damp from the diaper having leaked.

After noting how the cloth diaper had been fastened, he removed the soiled one and replaced it with one from the bag. It took him several minutes to get it on and he'd managed to stick himself several times in the process. Finally, he got it haphazardly on. He found dry clothes and a new blanket in one of the bags and got the baby dressed and wrapped against the cold once more.

Finished, he the baby up and headed over to the others. "Took you long enough," Charlie commented when she saw him.

"Yeah, cause I have a lot of experience with this sort of thing," he snapped as he tried once more to hand the baby back of to someone. Neither of his companions were willing to cooperate, which left him quite stuck.

"You had sisters," Miles reminded him.

"Yeah, and I changed a total of two diapers—under protest. They were disposable and my mom had one of those diaper trashcan things." He secretly vowed to get back at them for this. He was a killer—a leader of men and a violent former despot—not a nanny.

Charlie was sitting in front of the fire, waiting for a pot of water to boil. She'd found a small sack of very finely ground grains. She assumed it was some type of cereal for the baby—it was too fine for any other use, really. She poured some in and made a very thin version of oatmeal with it. "We'll have to get milk or something in the next town," she murmured. "He's probably starving without his mother."

"Her, actually," Bass said. Figuring that any attempts to unburden himself would result in denial, he resigned himself to sitting down and waiting for Charlie to finish making her cereal. "I got a really good look," he explained when Charlie and Miles gave him a weird look.

Charlie watched Bass as she poured the cereal into one of the bottles they'd found in the baby's things. It wasn't much, but it'd have to do for the time being. If Miles was right, they weren't that far from the next town and hopefully could get something better there. When she noticed he was starting to doze off, jerking his head up every few minutes in an attempt to stay awake, she took pity on him.

With a sigh, she got up. "I'll take her—get some sleep." She hadn't the slightest idea what she was doing—her experience with children was limited to the bigger version them, but Bass would be no good to anyone if he was that tired.

Charlie gave it her best shot—really she did. Her best wasn't really all that good, however. She spent the next hour trying to feed the newest member of their party, but just couldn't get her to eat. The more she tried, the more the baby fussed.

Bass was almost out, but the baby had started to work herself back up into pure outrage again. She quite obviously wanted something other than Charlie was offering. "Oh for fucks sake," he whined as he got up. "Giver her to me."

Charlie ignored him and tried once more. Bass clenched his jaw and grabbed the bottle out of her hand. "At this rate, she'll never eat and I'll never get to sleep. Just give her to me."

He settled down once more, resting up against a tree with the baby in his arms. After several minutes he finally got her to take it. "I'll take watch—not like I'm going to sleep now at any rate," he told the other two.

A while later, with the baby changed once more he sat there and just held her while Charlie and Miles slept. The wind picked up a little despite the sunshine and she started to shiver in her sleep. Not really thinking about it, he opened his coat and set his accidental charge on his chest, covering her up with the blanket from his bedroll.

He lost track of how long he sat like that, but eventually his eyelids started to get heavy. He fought it as hard as he could, but in the end, Bass drifted off. The sun crossed the sky above them while their camp slept.

Bass woke up several hours later when Miles kicked his boot. "Rise and shine, Daddy Day-care," he said with a smirk as he passed.

With a yawn, he got up. Charlie went to take the baby from him to set her inside the tent so they could eat and pack up the camp. She started to laugh as soon as he'd handed her over. Bass looked down to see the wet spot on his shirt. "I hate my life," he grumbled as he plucked the baby out of Charlie's arms to change her and find a dry shirt.


	4. Life Happens Easily, If You Let It

A/N: Here it is, the long awaited chapter 4. This one was kind of hard to write. It went back and forth between including a lot of details and removing a lot of them too. When I'd first pieced out this story, the first half was there, but the second part was not. I'd gotten them home, and then had written the next part, intending on adding what would become the second half of this later.

I didn't want the whole thing to be a bunch of redundant feeding a baby, burping a baby, but as I learned when I wrote Rebuild yourself, well that's all that babies do—they eat, the sleep, they shit, repeat.

Anyway, I hope this flows well. I had my doubts. The point of this was to show family and the progression of a bunch of people becoming one. Aaron and Priscilla are not really involved in the story, but they're there in the background… And please excuse the fact that there may have been alcohol involved in the writing of some of this chapter.

**December 14, 2030 – Fifty miles west of the Lincoln Outpost**

With the weather turning and the unexpected change to their party, they made the decision to make for the outpost in Lincoln and get a train back to Texas. It would take them significantly out of their way, but the added time in Nebraska would still make their trip back faster than completing their journey south with the wagon.

They'd stopped in the first town they'd found and had lucked out in getting some supplies—and a few loose leads to the baby's identity. Once they'd had time, they'd gone through everything they'd taken from the camp to see if there was anything that might identify where they'd come from and who they were.

They'd turned up very little. In town, however they'd found a dairy that sold both powdered milk and a recipe for makeshift formula (a necessity in the plains where harsh conditions meant a lot of motherless babies) and a granary—and if they were right, it was also the original source of the cereal.

It was an unusual blend and so finely ground that it had to have been made deliberately for the baby. Charlie had gotten the woman who ran the granary to talk a little. She hadn't known much; only that she'd sold the stuff to a young, redheaded woman who'd come in with a young man that had clearly been her partner.

The only things she'd recalled was that he'd called the mother Jenny, and she'd looked scared when he'd done so—that and she'd thought they'd mentioned Crystal City. They'd been speaking in hushed tones, so she hadn't made much else out.

That had at least given them a start—and had confirmed their suspicions that one of the mother's traveling companions may have been a Ranger at some point. One of them had been older—closer to Miles and Bass' age, most likely. The younger of the two had been dressed in an odd combination of a tattered Ranger's uniform and the simpler garb of the plains.

That meant that more than likely the baby belonged in Texas. Miles had been the one to decide that if that was the case, they needed to take her with them rather than find someone to take her in along the way. Bass and Charlie had both protested that one, considering they'd both been stuck with caring for her, but Miles' had been adamant. The last thing they needed was it somehow coming out that they'd abandoned a Texan baby on the plains—not when they technically worked for the government.

It was late afternoon and Mother Nature had decided to go easy on them for an entire day. The temperature had even been bearable. With dusk just a scant hour away, they'd decided to stop when they'd found a good place to set up camp. The outpost was close enough that they had little concern for clans and bandits. They typically stayed as far as they could from the Rangers and kept a low profile when they had to pass close. Patrols were common enough that few would risk exposing themselves over a raid.

Miles sat stretched out before the fire, his duties in setting up camp and tending to the horses complete. Charlie and Bass had been swapping time caring for their charge and it was currently Bass' turn. He still grumbled and whined about it daily, but the Mathesons no longer took it very seriously. The desperation had gone out of it since about day four and they were both convinced he'd kept it up for appearances only.

"What are we going to do with her once we get back to Texas?" Bass wondered aloud. None of them had really talked about it. Once Miles had made his little proclamation, it hadn't even come up. Eventually, they'd take her to Austin, of course, but what would they do with her once they got there?

"Grandpa should probably take a look at her," Charlie replied, not bothering to look up from the pot of beans she was stirring. "Molly's probably never even seen a doctor."

"Molly? Who the hell is Molly?" Miles asked. He'd been cleaning his gun and looked up from the task to look at them.

Bass pointed to the baby he held. She'd practically torn the bottle from his hands and was happily holding it and chugging away. "She is."

"Since when?"

Charlie spared a glance at her uncle, noticing the agitation that had appeared in his tone. "Since this morning."

"You named the baby? Oh no. We are _not_ naming the baby," he snapped, setting down his dismantled gun and getting to his feet. "Which one of you morons did it?"

Charlie bit back a grin and pointed to Bass. They'd tossed names back and forth, finally deciding that she looked like a Molly, but naming her had been totally his idea. "He did," was all she said.

Bass shot her an annoyed look. _Thanks a lot, traitor._ "It's not a big deal—had to call her _something_ other than 'the baby' all the time. It was creepy." As he used the term, he made little air quotes with his hand.

"No way. Take it back."

"You can't take a name back. And it's not like it's permanent—it's just until we pass her off to Texas."

"Nope. I'm not having it. There will be no naming of 'The Baby,' and that's final." Miles turned to Charlie then. "That's how it always starts. First, there's the naming, then there's the getting attached. Then, there's chaos and destruction and all hell breaks loose."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bass asked, his own voice now raised.

"Let's see, there was that turtle in the third grade, for starters."

"Pokey? That was over thirty-five years ago. I don't see how one has to do with the other—"

Miles ignored him, interrupting to list other prime examples. "That stupid squirrel, a possum, the hamster, that cat in Iraq. Oh, and I think there was a raccoon in there somewhere too."

Charlie looked from one man to the other. Miles was red with outrage, and Bass just looked equally annoyed and embarrassed. Charlie, on the other hand was just confused. "What's with all the animals?"

Miles turned to explain. "It's always the same. He gets them, and then he names them. Of course, what happens? They're pets, they die and then he gets all upset. You _never_ let him name it." his tone implied that she should have somehow known better.

"This is a bit different than a bunch of pets I had decades ago, dumbass. It's a _baby_ not an animal," Bass protested, trying to appeal to logic.

"Decades ago? What about the dog, hmm?"

Bass' expression changed. "We don't talk about the dog."

"What dog?" Charlie asked, confused why that would be such a sensitive subject.

"Oh, let's talk about that dog, Bass. The whole world was falling apart around us and he finds this mangy ass dog in the middle of nowhere. I told him to leave it alone but, oh no. Dr. Doolittle here had to go and feed the damn thing. _Then _he had to name it. After that? Scranton."

"I'm not talking about this," he insisted. "Ever."

"What happened in Scranton? To the dog, I mean," Of course she knew about Scranton. _Everyone_ knew about the slaughter that had occurred there. She was curious what the dog had to do with it.

"Rival militia killed his damn dog and he went berserk," Miles told her, the smugness in his voice indicating that he felt he'd made his point. Bass couldn't go about naming things. It was hazardous to the wellbeing of everyone around him.

Bass felt the need to get away from them at that moment. The baby had finished eating and had since passed out, despite the commotion around her. He got up to set her in her tent, intending on walking away from them.

"Wait a minute. You destroyed an entire city because someone killed your dog?" Charlie asked, incredulous. The tale was getting more ridiculous by the minute.

"No, I attacked an enemy in a shit-dump excuse for a town—and won. The city would have survived too, if that asshole hadn't thrown that grenade. And they didn't kill my dog. They. Ate. Her. Just fucking ate her! Who does that?"

His point having been made, Miles calmed down a little—and then had a wicked gleam in his eyes. "You should have seen him. He was so pissed when the scouts came back and told him they had the dog on a spit. What did you name that thing?"

"Don't."

"Oh, that's right—Fluffy."

Charlie had to smother her mouth to hold the laughter inside—and was failing at it miserably. Bass sent her a nasty glare. "She was a good dog," he insisted, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, I'm sure she was. All dogs named _Fluffy_ are good dogs," Charlie offered, losing the battle and breaking into a fit of giggles.

"Ask him what kind of dog it was," Miles grinned.

Charlie looked up at him expectedly. His response was muffled and she couldn't make out what he'd said. "What was that? Didn't quite catch it."

If looks could kill, Miles would have been vaporized where he stood. "She was a fucking poodle. There, are you happy? Asshole."

Charlie's laughter erupted anew. "The great Sebastian Monroe went to war because someone ate his _poodle?_ Aren't those tiny, worthless little lap dogs?" She'd never seen one, but she'd read about one in a book as a child.

"She was a standard poodle and they're fucking smart—and good hunting dogs. It's what they were bred for. And, I hate you Miles. You're such a dick."

With that, he made a concentrated effort to ignore them both and turned his attention towards digging a flask out of his pack. He didn't know why Miles seemed to make it his mission to embarrass the hell out of him—especially in front of his niece.

"Be nice, Charlie. Bass is very sensitive about his poodle," Miles joked. He was not happy about the whole naming thing, so if he couldn't change it, he'd at least get to have a little fun out of it. "All because why? _He named it!_"

He was sure to pay for his comments at some point, he was quite sure of it. Later that evening, when he found a dirty diaper on his bedroll, he took his punishment in stride. He even resisted the urge to throw it at Bass—just barely.

**December 17, 2030**

__Due to snow, they made it to Lincoln a day later than they'd intended. Because the outpost was rather remote, trains didn't come often and when they did, they were almost exclusively run by the Rangers for official business. It took a lot of convincing, but eventually the man in charge, one Major Staley agreed to send them out on the next train heading back across the border.

They were lucky in that one was expected to arrive from the capital in just a day or two and would be returning just as soon as it could be restocked with coal. That would put them home by Christmas if luck held out and it didn't snow again.

Because of security concerns after the war, the Rangers had made use of the train yard that the Patriots had built outside of Willoughby. They'd be able to stop there and regroup before moving on to Austin to debrief and get paid. All three of them were looking forward to that. The past weeks had been draining and they were all starting to get on each other's nerves.

The horses were spent by the time they got there, so after talking to Staley, Bass and Miles went to the livery to get them settled and the wagon secured. Charlie was left with Molly to find accommodations for their stay. Luck may have been on their side when it came to trains, but not to hotels. There'd only been one small room available in the outpost's only inn.

That night, it was decided that since it was her turn to take care of Molly that Bass and Miles would sleep with the horses and wagon. Hopefully, the train would arrive the next day, and the arrangement wouldn't be long term. With Rangers everywhere, she'd be reasonable safe without having to take a watch rotation.

In the middle of the night, they were woken up by the innkeeper's son. "Your friend sent me to get you. That baby is keeping the entire place awake, and my mom's threatening to kick them out," he explained.

With a groan, Bass got up and followed the boy towards the inn. He found a frantic Charlie pacing the room, jiggling the baby as if her life depended on it. "She won't stop. It's been two hours. She won't eat, won't sleep, won't stop. Make it stop," she practically begged through sleep deprived eyes.

She all but thrust Molly at him. Within a few moments, he had her slowly quieting down. "Geez, what did you do to her?" he asked. She hadn't been that upset since the night they'd found her.

"Nothing. She was asleep and then woke up to be fed. I made the bottle but all she did was scream."

Molly was finally soothed and quiet, and Bass went to hand her back. Charlie adamantly refused. "No way. I'm not taking her again. She'll just scream again."

He sighed heavily. "Can you at least take her while I get my jacket off? It's fucking roasting in here," he whined. The fire had been build up in the small fireplace to ward off the cold and he'd started sweating the second he'd entered the small room.

Charlie was at least willing to help out that long. The task done, he paused and then stripped down to his undershirt too. He took Molly back then and picked up the bottle Charlie had left on the small side table. He had no trouble getting her to take it—he had to pull it back to get her to slow down in fact.

Charlie just watched them, standing on the other side of the room, leaning up against the door. She still didn't understand why he had such an easy time with Molly, whereas every moment she spent with her seemed to be a balancing act just to keep her happy.

Experience had taught Bass that feeding the baby too quickly never ended well, so he pulled it back and her upright to burp her. Almost immediately, she let out a loud one—and then spit up all over him. "You've got to be joking," he groaned. "Why is it always me? You'd think she saves it up or something."

Charlie stifled a laugh. Better him than her, she thought. "Well, at least we know why she was so mad."

She took her once more just long enough for Bass to remove his now soiled undershirt and use it to wipe the rest of it off his neck. He picked up his shirt and then thought better of it. "She's not puking on that," he muttered. Molly had started to fuss again, so he took her back, intent on finishing the job of feeding her. As he turned, he caught Charlie looking at him strangely. It made him uncomfortable, so he turned his back to her and focused on the baby.

Charlie could sense the source of his discomfort. She knew he was sensitive about the scars he carried. In all actuality, the only opportunity she'd even had to see them was after the battle of Pueblo, and she'd been too distracted with getting her own injury seen to that she hadn't gotten a good look.

Silence filled the room until it became almost unbearable. "Do the still hurt? " Charlie blurted out, her voice barely above a whisper. She knew that openly acknowledging the scars would only embarrass him, but she truly wanted to know. That, and maybe it would keep him from wondering what else she may have been staring at.

Bass had settled down on the edge of the bed, his back still to her as he fed Molly. He didn't want to see the pity in her eyes- she might have been better at hiding it than most, but it always came. Even whores felt it eventually.

"Sometimes," he finally said. "Sometimes they pull when it's cold."

Charlie realized then that he must have spent the weeks in considerable discomfort. It had been freezing in the plains ever since the middle of November and had only gotten worse sense. She stood in indecision for several minutes before she got the courage to move again. Resolved, she reached for her pack.

She dug around until she found what she was looking for. It was just a small pot of salve that she carried with her. One of the nurses at the med evac tent outside of Pueblo had given the first batch to her, promising that it would help to minimalize the scarring on her face.

It hadn't helped it from being noticeable, but it had at least kept the skin soft. The few times she'd gone without it for more than a few days, she'd noticed the scar that marred her features had dried out a little and had seemed tougher.

Once she'd exhausted the original supply, her grandfather had been able to replicate it. Charlie approached Bass now, hesitating for just a moment longer before dipping her fingers into the pot. He jumped at the first contact, clearly having not expected it. "It might help," she murmured as she continued.

Charlie spent the next little while rubbing the salve onto each scar. She stopped where they disappeared below the waistband of his jeans. She hadn't understood just how much damage there'd been before now. She realized that he must have been stripped bare when it had happened; the degradation had to have been horrible to endure.

She got off the bed and walked around it to face him, working now on the ones that crossed over his shoulders to his chest. She stopped when she was impeded form the ones lower down by both the baby in his arms and the last shred of propriety between them.

"I can do the rest. Thank you," he stammered, his face flushed with what she was sure was embarrassment.

Charlie nodded and set down the jar on the bed next to him. "Keep it. I have enough to last until we get back and Grandpa can make me more," she said. She backed away now and grabbed the discarded shirt. "I'll… There's a washroom. I'll rinse this off for you."

She fled before she could do something stupid or allow him to see that her own face was now hot. It had started out as a simple gesture, one borne in friendship, but their proximity had left her feeling flustered in a way she hadn't expected.

When Bass heard her close the door softly behind her, he let out a shaky breath. Charlie's touch had done more than cause a blow to his pride, to be sure—not that he'd let her know or even admit it to himself, really. He shook his head, trying to force those thoughts away.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Molly. He burped her again—grateful that this time nothing came up. Changing her one last time, he set her down in the old crib that Charlie had convinced the innkeeper to throw in with the room.

Picking up the jar, he gave it a whiff. At least it didn't reek (okay, it _might_ have smelled a little feminine), but it really had helped his back a little. With a shrug, he began to apply it to the lash marks on his stomach and sides. The ones below the belt would have to wait for another day, however. The last thing he wanted right now was for Charlie to come back into the room and find him like _that_.

When she returned, he picked up his things, deciding that she could handle it on her own now. His undershirt was wet, but he could make it to the livery without it. Just when he was about to get dressed, Molly began to cry. He dropped his gear, his shirt now forgotten as he picked her up with a wear sigh.

Over the course of the next hour, a cycle formed. He'd get her down, he'd go to leave and then the baby would rouse again. Eventually, they both gave up. It would be morning before they knew it and they had to sleep at some point. It wasn't as if they'd never shared a bed, after all.

Granted, it had been only twice. And both times the bed had been a heck of a lot bigger and every piece of gear they'd owned (bedrolls included) had been between them at the time. They'd also hated each other then too (well, she'd hated him. Bass on the other hand… well he decided not to think of it).

Now at least they were friends—sort of. Either way, it was late and they were both exhausted. Bass was more so, due to his chronic lack of sleep. They ended up in the bed, Charlie beneath the blanket and Bass atop it, with Molly wrapped in her own blankets and snuggled in between them.

Charlie was out the moment her head hit the pillow and the baby was happy as she could be. Bass, on the other hand found sleep (as usual) a long time coming. He watched them both in the flickering light from the fireplace. His tired brain began to wander then.

_So, this is what it'd have been like?_ The thought came out of nowhere. _If I hadn't lost them, would it have felt this way?_ For a few more minutes, he let himself play it out before he realized how ridiculous—and dangerous that was.

That future had died a long time ago with Shelly. There was no bringing back the dead, erasing the past or hoping for that future ever again. It was an illusion created by lack of sleep and too many layers of grief to count.

He realized then that if he were to crane his neck, he might actually be close enough to kiss her—not that he would or should. _Where did that come from?_ He made a mental note right then and there to talk to the Doc when they got back about his persistent insomnia. Clearly, Miles and Charlie where right—it really was starting to drive him crazy. Still, as he closed his eyes and drifted off, a small part of him wanted to hold on to that illusion just a little bit longer.

**December 22, 2030**

The train ride back went about as smoothly as one could expect when traveling with a baby. While Miles snoozed in his seat, Charlie and Bass were forced to take turns walking up and down the length of the car with Molly, just to keep her quiet and amused—and in all actuality it had really been Bass for the most part. Charlie had managed to find a way to shirk out of the duty for over half of her "shifts."

As expected, the train stopped in Willoughby. From there, it would undergo a security sweep and take on coal and water before leaving for Austin. They arrived just after noon and it would not leave again until the next morning.

Their first order of business was to have Gene look the poor orphan over. With her likely having been raised on the road in the plains the likelihood of her ever having been examined by one was fairly slim. The doctor performed the exam while they all huddled around the kitchen table.

"Well, she seems healthy enough. Maybe eight months or so, if I had to guess. She's probably a little underweight though," he said as he set his stethoscope aside. "What have you been feeding her?"

Charlie grabbed the powdered milk mixture they'd used and handed it over for him, along with the recipe she'd painstakingly written down. "This was all we had," she informed him.

"Well, that's part of your problem. No wonder she's crabby. This stuff probably makes her colicky."

"What else could we have done?" Bass asked, a little insulted. He thought they'd done fairly well by her.

"Sadly, not much else. That's about the best recipe you're gonna find—it's just not the same as it used to be before it all went to hell," he said thoughtfully. "Unless you can find a woman to nurse her, that is."

"Anyone in town that can do the honors?" Miles interjected. It'd only be for a day, but something was better than nothing.

"Not that I know of. I haven't delivered a baby in almost two years—not since the Patriots," he added sadly. If he'd known then what he'd known now, he'd have told them to take their vaccines and shove them. The Patriots had done more to kill his precious town than any cholera epidemic.

A while later, Bass made his way towards his place, having decided his work regarding the child was done. He'd gotten her to Texas in one piece, after all. Caring for her had been a necessary evil, but she was in better hands now. He was looking forward to getting clean, getting drunk and just maybe getting laid—and not necessarily even in that order.

The next morning, he found himself at the rail yard alone, waiting on the other two. They'd go to Austin, get debriefed and drop off the baby at whatever home or orphanage would take her until Texas could figure out where (if anywhere) she belonged.

The train was almost ready to go and they'd yet to show up. He was starting to get a little worried when a very tired looking Charlie and Miles finally graced him with their presence. Charlie stalked over to him and thrust the baby at him. "It was a night from Hell! This thing kept us up all night screaming—she's all yours."

Before he could protest, his traveling companions disappeared onto the train. He looked down at Molly, who was cooing and smiling up at him happily, any traces of the "night from Hell" long gone. "Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. And then, he caught a whiff of a certain smell. "Oh, come the fuck on!" he whined, his eyes shooting heavenward.

As it was, he barely made it on the train on time. "Do you always have to hand her off to me like that?" he asked. He'd been in a good mood before then—he'd indeed gotten clean, headed to the closest whorehouse and had worked off the tension that always built up from so much time doing without on the road (this trip having been particularly bad in that regard) and had gotten nice and plastered. Sure, he was hung over a bit now, but it was a good kind of hangover that came after a good night out.

He pouted for well over hour before giving in to the little smiles and giggles that Molly was giving him. It was hard to stay in a bad mood when something so small took so much delight in tugging on your beard, however painful it might have been—and the kid was strong, he had to give her that.

The trip was only eight hours and she'd gotten over her previous hatred of trains fairly quickly and had fallen asleep against his chest. Still tired from his nightly activities, Bass put his feet up on the empty seat across from him and leaned back, shutting his eyes. They still had a good two hours before reaching Austin and he figured he'd get a catnap in. Miles had been snoring quietly for hours now and Charlie seemed pensive and not in any mood to talk. In a nutshell, he was bored so there was no other alternative.

Charlie spent the rest of the trip not looking at the scenery that passed them by, but regarding the man whose feet were just inches from her hip; his breathing had evened out, indicating that he had fallen asleep and the baby he held was drooling on his jacket. She couldn't help but smile at the picture they made together. Who would have thought that he'd make such a good little nanny? She bit back a giggle at that idea. He'd be grouchy and annoyed with her if he could read her thoughts, to be sure…

**December 26, 2030**

Their meeting with Blanchard and the Bishop had not gone as expected. They'd been paid, to be sure. They'd also be reimbursed for the additional expenses of taking the train. And, the President had assured them that he'd send someone to investigate the lead in Crystal City.

They'd fully expected to return home with heavy pockets and no baby, but couldn't have been more wrong. The war had left a lot of orphans and the homes in Austin were bursting at the seams with unwanted children. There was no place for her there and the odds of finding a family to take her in were slim. If there were people willing to take in foundlings, they wouldn't have had such a problem with the orphanages now.

They were instructed to take her back to Willoughby with them and find someone to care for her. The only help that Bishop Allan had been able to offer was that the church would send a small stipend to whomever agreed to take her—pending that they were catholic, of course.

Charlie, Miles and Gene sat at the kitchen table going over a list of people that had made tentative offers to foster Molly. Aaron and Priscilla were currently out of town, doing their best to find what had become of Priscilla's daughters. A lead in that search had come in while they'd still been in the plains and they'd been gone for almost two weeks. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, it was possible that they were still alive.

The Pittmans would have been the simplest solution, to be sure. Priscilla knew a lot about caring for a baby—especially in the post-blackout world and Aaron had the patience of Job. But the fact was that they weren't there and so another option had to be found.

"What about Tabitha Jones?" Charlie asked. Their short list was getting shorter by the minute as one name or another had been crossed out for various reasons.

"She's a fucking alcoholic," Bass called from the living room. He really hadn't been part of the decision making process officially. He'd been assigned to Molly duty, as she'd been in a poor mood all day. He had, however made his thoughts on each potential foster parent known.

"So are you," Miles snapped.

Bass chuckled at the faces that Molly was making at him, in spite of himself. "Yeah, but I'm at least a functioning one!" he practically sang back at them.

Charlie and Gene locked eyes. With a sigh, she crossed the name out. "He does have a point though. I've seen her passed out in the street more than once."

"What about the Crutchfields?" Gene suggested. They hadn't been on the list, per se but at least they had enough to eat and weren't fans of the bottle.

"Older than dirt!" came Bass' reply.

Again, he had a point—as much as they didn't want to admit it. Charlie read off the last name on the list. "Julie Price?"

Again, Bass protested before anyone else could say anything for or against her. "The crazy cat lady? Are you kidding me?"

She _did_ have an unhealthy number of felines in her house, and tended to smell like it too. Charlie crossed off the last name and rubbed her temples. They'd gone over a good twenty of Willoughby's most generous denizens, and so far none had been found suitable.

"We're all out of names, asshole. You've found a reason to argue against all of them," Miles shouted. Granted, they'd all been good reasons, but still.

Bass appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, Molly in his arms and trying desperately to get her hand in his pocket. "Well, maybe we can ask around again," he suggested.

"We've already asked everyone—twice. If you've got a better idea, we'd love to hear it," Miles replied. He was getting tired of this and wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole thing. He had a sneaking suspicion why it was so difficult to find someone everyone agreed on, but he kept that to himself—for now.

Later, Bass would tell himself that he really needed to make sure his brain and mouth were on the same page. It tended to get him into all sorts of trouble—trouble that he didn't need. "I'll do it," he blurted out.

"What?!" Miles, Gene and Charlie all said in unison.

"You?" Even Gene was practically laughing at the suggestion.

Bass shrugged. "Why not? You people stick me with her most the time anyway."

"What about our job?" Miles asked. "What if Blanchard has work for us?"

"He already said he doesn't have anything coming up that he can get away with paying us for. And with my cut from the last one, I could go 'til summer and still have something left over. If anything comes through, you two can handle it." Molly had succeeded in working her hand into his pocket and was trying to pull his flask out. He shifted her to the other side to keep it out of her reach. "Besides, I'm technically catholic, so the church will pay for her care."

"Yeah, I'm still not liking the idea," Gene said.

Charlie stood up then. "I think you should let him," she said. If he really wanted to do it for some reason, why not let him. There was no one else, really. Miles was still reluctant to even look at Molly (or call her that) and Gene's job as the town's only doctor kept him far too busy. That, and he was getting a bit old to handle the demands of a small child. That one night, she'd crashed at her grandfather's place to help him with her and they'd both been at their wits end by the time it was all said and done.

Miles looked at Bass and the squirming baby and then looked at Charlie. He got an evil grin on his face as an idea crossed his mind. "Okay, I'll go along with it—but _you've_ got to help him, and keep an eye on him."

Charlie's jaw dropped. "Wait… what?"

**March 2, 2031**

When Bass made his ill-thought out offer to take Molly in, it had been with the assumption that it would be a very temporary arrangement. They all had figured that within a few weeks, Blanchard's guy would have checked the lead in Crystal City. If that hadn't panned out and her family couldn't be found, Molly would eventually go to a permanent home (as Bishop Allen had promised).

All things considered, Bass managed to settle in with her rather easily. Once the potential responsibility of caring for the foundling was lifted from the shoulders of the community, the good people of Willoughby had been more than happy to step forward with offers to lend him whatever he'd need to get by.

A crib had been lent and clothes had been donated. More bottles, some even pre-blackout ones that were in decent condition showed up, and even a high chair had been found. Bass and Miles had almost come to blows over some very poorly timed (and rather funny) comments about baby showers, and Charlie had made good on Miles' demand that she "keep an eye on things," just to make sure Bass didn't fuck it all up.

Gene also monitored Molly's progress carefully. She'd been initially both underweight and a little behind in her development, but by the end of January, she seemed to be catching up quickly. The doctor had initially had his reservations about Bass' ability to care for anything more demanding than a pet rock, but even he'd been forced to admit that he wasn't doing too bad of a job.

A few minor gigs had come from Blanchard, but none of them had been anything that Charlie and Miles couldn't handle on their own and none of them took them out of town for more than a few days.

They were just returning from one of those minor missions—an escort job for some dignitary that Blanchard had wanted handled delicately. The man had a few enemies as it was and the president had decided that extra security was in order. It had only taken a week to do the job and get back—the longest they'd had in a while.

Starving and wanting to wash down the dust from the road, Miles and Charlie headed into the bar—to find Bass there, quietly nursing a glass of whiskey in the corner. Miles went directly to the bar to get their drinks and Charlie stomped over to where Bass sat.

"Um, what are you doing here?" she asked, a little more sternly than she'd initially intended.

He looked up and met her glare. "Having a drink. It's good to see you too," he drawled.

"Um, where's the baby?"

He picked up his glass and took a drink. It'd been a while since he'd had a chance to just sit back and enjoy it. He'd found himself doing so less and less since he'd taken Molly in. "At home, sleeping."

"You left her alone?" Charlie's voice was raised in a peculiar manner that had him almost flinching—almost.

"Seriously? You've been gone a week. Do you_ really_ think I'm not capable of acting like a grownup if you're not here? Of course she's not alone. I got a babysitter." Bass couldn't help but be insulted. He'd managed to go all his adult life without having someone looming over him to make sure he didn't do something stupid (not including a few lower points in his life, but he refused to consider those), and suddenly here was Charlie—half his age and talking to him like a child.

"Who'd you get to watch her?" For the most part, the baby only really tolerated being around herself and Bass, and she was amazed that anyone had been willing.

"Heather Matthews," he said. He tried not to notice that she only seemed angrier when he'd answered. And suddenly, as quickly as she'd gotten mad, it seemed to disappear moments later.

Miles joined them then. "Well, look who's out on the town. Heard you had a date?" The question was innocent enough. Of course, he'd gotten the details about Bass' presence at the bar from Melissa. She'd been the one to convince Bass to get a sitter and come out—to meet a friend of hers, of course.

Charlie almost choked on her whiskey, managing to recover before either man noticed. "Where's the lucky girl that got _you_, of all people to be social?"

"Took her home; date was over," he replied. She'd been nice enough, he supposed—and attractive. Rebecca Hart had recently come to town to work in the school and had an early morning, so he'd walked her home and had come back for a drink before heading back himself. She'd seemed interested, even giving him an impulsive peck before scurrying inside.

"How'd it go?" Miles asked, dipping for details. The idea of Bass finally meeting someone had him lighting up a little. He'd seemed to be doing a lot better since having taken Molly in. After all, she at least gave him something to focus on other than his own misery. He was a man that needed a purpose and she'd give him one.

Charlie had even told him that he hadn't woken her up with a single nightmare since they'd come back with her. Granted, the baby's fussing at night could still be heard through those paper thin walls, but at least it wasn't Bass doing the fussing these days.

"Okay I guess."

"Gonna see her again?" Miles made it clear he wasn't done prying.

Bass pushed his chair back and stood, his glass still half full. "I haven't decided yet. Anyway, I've got to be getting back. Heather probably wants to go home," he said thoughtfully as he went over to the bar to pay for his drink. He left Miles and Charlie staring after him. He'd had a date that had by all accounts gone well, and was now going home— without even finishing his drink. Who was this and what had he done with Bass?

The next morning, Charlie made it a point to pop next door. Bass was sitting on the couch, looking tired with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was watching Molly as she crawled around the living room floor. She almost laughed at the way he'd used various household items to block off the hallway and kitchen. She hadn't really been very mobile when they'd left and had thus far not even attempted to "baby proof" his unit until now.

"When did this start?" she said with a grin as she came inside. She hadn't really bothered knocking. They'd somehow moved past that necessity in the past weeks.

Bass took a drink of his coffee and looked up at Charlie. The smile on her face was unusually radiant as she watched Molly play. "Couple of days ago. Once she got the hang of it, she just sort of took off. Coffee's still hot on the stove if you want," he added. Deep down inside, he was a little proud of his charge, but he'd never admit it to anyone.

She stepped over the large chest he'd dragged to block off the kitchen, disappearing within to take him up on the offer. While she was gone, Bass began to wonder about her behavior the night before. She'd seemed genuinely bothered over the idea of him hiring a sitter and getting out for the evening. What he couldn't figure out was why. Was it because she had a problem with a sitter in general, or with him going out? And why had his choosing Heather bothered her?

In a rare moment of bravery where Charlie was concerned, he decided to ask her just that. Charlie came back with her own cup and sat down next to him on the couch. When she'd settled herself happily, legs crossed Indian-style and leaning back to watch the baby, he cleared his throat. "So what was with you last night?"

"What are you talking about?" She asked innocently.

"You got all pissed when you saw me and it got worse from there. What's wrong with getting out of the house every once in a while?"

He had her there. Charlie knew that he'd done nothing wrong and yet she hadn't an answer for her behavior. It had just gotten to her, plain and simple. "Nothing, it's just—hey, I thought you'd sworn off letting Melissa set you up."

Charlie had thought she'd changed the subject quite prettily. She hadn't expected him to actually have an answer. "Yeah, well, she suckered me into it." Noticing that Molly had almost succeeded in getting past one of his barricades he handed Charlie his coffee and took off after her. "Oh, no you don't, little girl." The baby giggled happily as he hovered her just a few inches off the ground, swinging her back and forth a little before setting her back down to explore again.

"I'm single, Charlie. And I'm not getting any younger. Melissa's heart's in the right place—and at least this one wasn't afraid of her own shadow," he said as he sat back down and accepted his cup from her.

"I guess I've just never seen you as the 'go on dates' type," Charlie commented, not knowing what else to say really.

"I can't fuck around with whores forever." Molly had started to fuss. Bored with the living room, she wanted attention. Bass got up again, disappearing just long enough to ditch his coffee and then picked her up. "Even I've gotta grow up sometime."

**May 8, 2031**

They were just finishing up dinner at Miles' house. Melissa and Charlie were in the kitchen, chatting while they did the dishes together. Charlie had decided that she actually liked Melissa quite a bit. They got along well and she was really good for Miles. She'd recently moved in and things between them seemed almost fairytale perfect.

They hadn't had a job since that last one she and Miles had gone on, and strangely they'd barely noticed. Blanchard had sent his apologies. There really hadn't been anything worth sending their way. Those "couple of weeks" with Molly had stretched into over four months, and Bass hadn't really seemed to mind. He hadn't mentioned her leaving in a while and just seemed happy to keep things as they were.

He'd gone out with Rebecca a few more times (Charlie even offering to babysit, despite the fact that the idea of him dating some school teacher bothered the hell out of her) before deciding that she just wasn't right for him. That had been to Charlie's vast relief.

Aaron and Priscilla had returned after finally finding Priscilla's daughters. Their father had moved on, assuming she was dead. It had been a difficult decision, but the girls had been happy and so they'd come back. They'd made the offer to take Molly from Bass when they'd come back, but he'd not seen a reason to do so. He'd had her for all this time and they got along well, after all.

While Melissa and Charlie worked in the kitchen, the rest of their hodgepodge family remained at the table, laughing at Bass' attempts to clean Molly's sticky fingers. This was the life that Rachel had once wanted for her daughter and even though she wasn't there to see it, Miles knew she'd be happy for them all—even for Bass.

A knock came to the door, interrupting the happy chaos of family. Miles got up and answered it while the others went back to talking. He came back a few minutes later, a worried look on his face. "Bass, it's for you," he said.

Charlie and Melissa both poked their heads into the dining room, having overheard and recognized the panic Miles was trying to hide. Something was happening, and it didn't seem like Miles expected any good to come of it. Charlie offered to take over with Molly while Bass went to see who it was. No one spoke, their ears all straining to try and hear what was going on in the next room. They heard the door shut and did their best to act casual.

"It was one of Blanchard's guys. Molly's grandparents have been found," he told them. He went back to the infant and picked her up. "I've gotta go. They'll be here in the morning and I have to get her ready to go home."

He grabbed her bag on his way out the door and quickly left. He'd given up on them ever having found her family. He hadn't set out to make this a permanent thing, but he'd just gotten used to it as time had passed. He hadn't thought about what would happen when and if the time came. _Miles was right; I shouldn't have named her…_


	5. Slammed Doors, Crowbars & Busted Locks

**A/N: Okay here is the next chapter, notes at the end to prevent spoilers.**

**May 9, 2031**

Bass closed the door and in doing so closed this last chapter of his life. He leaned up against it and looked around his half of the duplex. It was quiet—too quiet. After four months of Molly's squeals and giggles, it was almost eerie how quiet it was in contrast.

Molly's grandparents had evidently arrived in town several hours after the Rangers had tracked him down at Miles' and had been forced to put up at the inn. This seemed to be something that they'd resented and had made no efforts to hide their distaste for the town in general.

The whole exchange had taken only a few minutes and had been uncomfortable at best. While Alice and Donald Wilson had seemed like decent enough people, they'd been a little standoffish and had acted oddly nervous. Bass assumed that this was indicative of their having been told of his identity before arriving. They'd come prepared to hate him—not that he found it all that surprising. It was just another bitter reminder of the past that he'd never live down.

They'd wanted nothing from him—not his hastily offered lunch, not the trunk of Molly's things, not his condolences about their daughter. They'd been willing to give him even less. He knew that they lived in Crystal City, but they'd refused to answer any questions about themselves or Molly's mother. For some reason, he'd really wanted to know about who she was and where she'd come from—all this time, she'd just been another dead face to him, and he'd wanted to put _something_ behind that.

Bass had tried to tell them about Molly and her stay with him. He'd planned on explaining her habits and little idiosyncrasies—those little things that made her _Molly_, but they hadn't wanted to hear it. They seemed almost resentful that he should know their grandchild so well and had simply cut him off with assurances that they'd figure things out along the way.

And so, with only a few quick moments to say goodbye, Molly was out of his life. _No… Not Molly. She's not Molly anymore. She's Trixie now…_ For the life of him, Bass couldn't figure out why anyone would name a child that, but her grandparents had insisted that was the name that their daughter had picked out for a girl and so they'd honor it.

Bass pushed himself off the door and wandered throughout the unit, separating things that would have to go back to various neighbors, piling up the stuff that they'd left behind—he supposed he'd send it all on to those full-up orphanages in Austin. A quick peek at a windup clock on the mantle showed that it was just now noon. The Wilsons had been gone for only twenty minutes and yet it had felt like hours.

The day was only half over, and he had no idea what to do with himself. He fiddled around with this and that for a while and then gave up trying to pretend that it was just another day. And so, he grabbed his house keys and went to do what he did best when he had nothing better to occupy his time.

**Later that night…**

Charlie and Miles had been watching him for a good hour. He was sitting in the corner of the bar at their usual table. So far, he'd yet to notice they were even there. Melissa's brother told them that he'd shown up just past lunch time and had gotten started—and hadn't stopped since.

His sister had already told him what had happened at dinner the night before, so John had been content to just let him have his wallow. He was behaving himself at any rate. If he continued to keep to himself and didn't pick any fights, John figured he was better off getting it out of his system where someone could keep an eye on him. If he got too drunk to pay his tab, well he knew he was good for it at any rate.

After helping him pack Molly's things the night before, Charlie had offered to come over to wait for the Wilsons with him, but he'd insisted that he didn't need her to. It had kind of hurt, really. She'd been there the whole time, helping him when he needed it and had found Molly with him. That he thought it wouldn't bother her also stung, even though she knew not to take it personally.

As Charlie and Miles watched him drink himself into oblivion now, they both started to get worried. They hadn't realized the attachment on his end was so deep. What Charlie didn't understand was why. He seemed lower now than he had when they'd learned of Connor's death—that had been his son. This was just a foundling he'd been stuck with.

"I knew this wasn't going to end well," Miles announced as they watched him get up from the table, his gait unsteady and eyes half closed. He hadn't wanted to be right, but he was all the same. "You _never_ let him name them."

Bass walked right past them without even acknowledging them. Either he'd been too drunk to even see them, or he was too hurt to care. Either way, he stumbled out the door of the bar without a word to anyone.

"Remind him that he owes me for the bottle when he sobers up, will you?" John murmured as he went to clean up after him.

Miles just dug into his pocket and slapped a few diamonds on the bar. "It might be a while, John."

**The next morning…**

Bass woke up with his fight or flight instinct revved up into high gear. He rolled over abruptly; having completely forgotten that he'd passed out on the couch and only just barely missed the coffee table as he fell onto the floor.

"Ow," he whined to himself as he pressed his palms to his eyes in hopes of blocking out the light coming in through the front window and extinguishing the fireworks now going off in his head. It took him a few seconds to realize that the noise he was hearing was not just the pounding in his poor, hung-over brain, but was the sound of someone walking about on the other side of his front door.

He vaguely tried to remember why someone should be doing this, when a few things came drifting out of the fog that permeated his bleary mind. He'd locked all the doors and windows before grabbing the bottle he'd had stashed in the back of his pantry. He'd known there'd be unwelcome visitors in the morning and he'd decided that the best course of action would be to shut them out.

He was hot, sweaty and nauseous and the last thing he wanted at that point was _anyone_ bothering him in this condition. Crawling back onto the couch, he grabbed a throw pillow and buried his head under it. He could only pray that whichever uninvited guest it was would go away soon so he could open a few windows and let some air in—the room was roasting.

Bass had almost succeeded in passing back out when the sudden slamming of his back door echoed off of the walls and hardwood floors. Either he'd forgotten to lock the damn thing again, or someone had picked the lock. He considered his options and in the end decided to emulate the noble ostrich—he kept his head buried in the cushions, determined to wait it out. If it was friend, maybe they'd give up and leave. If foe? If he got really lucky, they'd just rob him blind, shoot him dead and leave him the hell alone.

"You're pathetic, you know that?"

The pillow disappeared, despite his half-hearted attempt to keep Charlie from yanking it away. Resigned to the fact that he would not be granted the courtesy of being left to his own misery, Bass rolled over again. This time, he even managed to keep himself off the floor. "You know, most people assume that when the doors are locked and there's no answer, it's not okay to just barge in." His voice sounded small and shaky, even to his own ears. _She's right—you're pathetic._

"Most people would get their stupid asses off the couch and come to the fucking door," Charlie scoffed, throwing the pillow at him. "Jesus, Bass. It's gotta be a hundred degrees in here."

"Thanks for letting me know, Little Miss Obvious." He wasn't sure what time it was—although it must be late enough for him to bypassed still drunk for full-fledged hangover. Regardless, the fact that it was so hot told him it was going to be a miserable day one way or another. These suspicions were confirmed by Charlie's choice of attire. He watched her through bleary eyes as she went about opening the windows in his living room. She'd either found a pair of old cutoffs somewhere or she'd gone ahead and made them herself out of one of her more worn down jeans- and they looked like they were damn near painted on.

She'd come over without the benefit of shoes, which suggested this was her first errand for the day. He tried not to notice that, along with how he could see the small of her back when she turned away from him and headed to the kitchen. In another world, her attire would be considered completely normal for a hot day. In their world, however, it was not and it made his mind go places he'd rather it stay away from.

With a groan, Bass got up and followed her on unsteady legs. He went out back to relieve himself, taking pleasure in the look of pure disgust she sent his way when he came back inside. It was a mutual respect thing for him to not use their shared back porch as a launching point, so to speak and he'd broken that unspoken rule on just to annoy her.

Walking only made things worse and the unrest in his stomach threatened to break out into an all-out revolt. He slowly sank down at the kitchen table, feeling about as weak as a newborn baby. He rested his head on his elbows and shut his eyes, hoping it'd pass.

"So, you mind telling me what you want?" he finally asked. When he'd had Molly here, Charlie was a frequent visitor, but despite their friendship, he'd always figured her constant presence was simply her following Miles' directive—keep an eye on him. Without that mutual interest, he figured that she'd have little reason to barge in on him now. "Not that I don't appreciate company in the morning and all."

Charlie bit back a laugh. He was really in a sorry state—his voice was muffled by the fact he was practically hugging the scarred wooden table and he reeked of cheap whiskey and absolute misery. "Someone has to save you from your sorry-ass self," she said. As she spoke, she started to pull things out of a cloth shopping bag. "And you skipped 'morning' altogether. It's almost six, moron."

Within a few minutes, the aroma of coffee and frying bacon permeated the room. Ordinarily, these were probably at the top of the list of Bass' all-time favorite smells. That someone was doing the brewing and frying for him would normally only make the aromas all the sweeter. This particular evening, it proved too much. Without a word, he ran out the back door.

Charlie just rolled her eyes as she continued to cook. It was going to be a long evening. She made the wise decision to ignore him, sparing Bass what little dignity he had left when he returned a short time later. He went right through the kitchen and down the hallway, practically crawling at a snail's pace and keeping a hand on the wall for support.

She could hear him fumbling around, the sound followed by splashing water. By the time she set two plates of food down on the table next to the waiting coffee cups, he'd cleaned himself up enough to look somewhat human and no longer smelled like he'd fallen asleep in a pile of John Gray's old bar rags. He'd even changed his clothes, although he hadn't bothered with the boots. For some reason, seeing Bass stumble around in bare feet was one of the oddest things she'd ever seen him do—and considering he would always be just a little on the neurotic side, that was saying a lot.

She waited for him to sit down before joining him at the table. Ignoring the food for now, he grabbed the coffee and just hung his head over it for a moment. Now that his stomach had been appeased, the scent of it shot back up to the top of his list of favorite things.

He ignored her while he waited for the caffeine to work its magic. It didn't take long before the pounding in his head was turned down just a little and he was able to think coherently. When she sat back in her chair and offered him a challenging look, he tentatively began to pick at his breakfast as well. She'd never leave him alone if he didn't at least put forth some small effort.

As he considered the eggs before him, he couldn't help but think of her menu choice as ironic. Breakfast for dinner. As a bachelor, it had been a staple whenever he'd been on leave. As a child, it had been a special treat that his mother had prepared when any of her children had been sick or just needed some cheering up. If ever there was a day that he needed that it was this one—not that he particularly wanted anyone to make him feel better.

"Well, I guess Miles owes me five diamonds then," Charlie said over the rim of her own cup. "He thought I'd find you passed out in a whorehouse—I told him you were way too drunk to make it that far from the bar," she explained when he arched a brow at her.

"Ha, ha. Very funny."

"We thought it was." She watched as he nursed his coffee, as if he didn't quite trust his stomach not to pull guerrilla war tactics at first contact. "Boy, when you get back into party mode, you don't waste any time."

"Just leave it, _Charlotte_," he grumbled, emphasizing her full name, just to make sure she was well aware that he was being petty.

Charlie refused to back off. She'd get him to talk if it took her all damn day. "Miles is worried," she informed him.

Bass picked at his food a few more minutes, not really eating but doing a good job of scattering them around his plate to create the illusion of it—a trick he'd learned when he was five and probably hadn't really resorted to since. "He shouldn't be. I'm a grown man; I can take care of myself."

"Says the guy that needs babying. What's your deal?"

He shoved the plate away and got up to refill his coffee cup. "Nothing. I just drank too much—I don't know if you realize it, but it's on the very long list of my bad habits."

"Bullshit. You can lie to yourself and you can lie to Miles, but don't lie to me. What gives? I get it, you'll miss her. But this? You always act like you don't give a shit about anything, so how's this any different?"

Bass was standing at the kitchen window. A family, new to town had bought the house behind theirs. They had three kids—all girls. From his vantage point, he could see them playing in the back yard with a mangy dog. "You know, my own daughter would have turned sixteen in a few months," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's a big part of it." The screams and giggles from those kids could be heard through the open window and it made him feel like someone was rubbing salt in the proverbial wound just then.

"Your _what_?" There was no hiding the fact that he'd just shocked the hell out of her.

He let out a sad laugh. "Yeah, believe it or not, I used to be just another guy, Charlie. I had a wife and we were gonna have a family and a white picket fence—the whole enchilada; dog in the yard, little veggie garden—just as soon as the world calmed down a little.

"What happened?" His words struck her straight through the middle. She got up and grabbed their plates, intent on cleaning up.

Bass gestured for her to leave the mess. "They died," he said, his tone clipped, indicating that's all he'd say on the topic.

No wonder he'd gone through such lengths in Mexico to get to Connor—and no wonder he was such a mess now. "I'm so sorry, Bass." Charlie knew it was a pitiful attempt at empathy, but she didn't know what else to say.

He stood lost in thought for quite a while before shaking himself back to the present. "Maybe for a minute there, I got a part of that back— I got to pretend… It doesn't matter. Anyway, I appreciate what you're trying to do here and all, but all I really need is some sleep. I've got a lot to do tomorrow."

Charlie was surprise by that. She hadn't thought that wallowing required so much preparation. "Really? We don't have a job—what's so important?"

Bass grabbed a large pot and started to fill it in the sink, intending to heat up water for the dishes. "I'm leaving," he told her without bothering to turn around. "Don't worry; you're not going to end up homeless. I'll stop by town hall in the on my way out; I'm transferring the duplex to your name. Congratulations—you're a slum lord now."

"You're—you're cutting out on us? Why?"

Bass fumbled with a pack of matches for a second while he tried to get the stove relit. "Come on, Charlie. I don't really belong here and everyone knows it. There's nothing here for me now—probably never was."

"What about our jobs?"

"What about it? Blanchard hasn't had shit for us really and most of what we've done was just his way of keeping Miles and me out of trouble. If anything, I might be able to light a fire under his ass to get some real work if I'm closer." He hadn't really been planning on going to Austin, but it just kind of came out. It would be about as good as anywhere, he supposed.

"Miles is here," she said.

Bass tried to ignore the urgency in her voice. "He's moving on Charlie. He's got Melissa now and he's settling down. He doesn't need me here to remind him of the past and get him into trouble. And I don't need to keep playing third wheel."

His hands were shaking and he was having trouble getting a match to light. Frustrated he tossed them on the counter and turned around. Charlie was already halfway across the kitchen, her intent to leave quite obvious. "I'm here," she practically whispered. "Not that you've ever taken the time to really notice."

Bass followed her into the next room. The way her shoulders were slumped and the unsteadiness in her voice definitely caught his attention. Her hand was already on the doorknob by the time he'd caught up with her. "Charlie, wait."

She hesitated for just a second, turning her head to look at him. "Have a nice life, Bass."

She looked so insecure and defeated—something that he instantly hated. Bass began to panic. Something was happening here and he didn't know exactly what. All he knew was that he _really_ didn't want her to go out that door right now.

He could handle it if Charlie was pissed at him—it was something he was used to at any rate. But not this. She was genuinely hurt. _Let her go. You're better off not knowing and she's better off not hearing what you're stupid mouth is about to say… Stop her—you'll regret it if you don't… _

Torn, Bass wished the little voices in his head could be in agreement for once. He didn't know what to say to her so he just blurted out the first thing that popped in his head. "I… You- you always bite your bottom lip when you're thinking…"

"What?" Charlie asked. She had the door half open, but stopped again when his words reached her.

"You do it when you read too. I don't think you even realize you do it." He said with a half-hearted laugh.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Bass shuffled closer and came up right behind her. He didn't know exactly where he was going with this, so he just decided to wing it. "Let's see, you—you always wrinkle your nose up when you're aggravated. I get to see that one a lot because I'm usually the one annoying you."

When Charlie let her hand fall away from the door, Bass reached out over her shoulder and pushed it closed. She was at the very least listening, so he kept going. "When you're hunting or tracking you look so peaceful—like it's the only way you can shut all the other bullshit out—and you always hold your breath when you're aiming. I don't know how you don't pass out from lack of air sometimes, because when you've got a doe or something in your sights you sure as hell take your sweet time before you take the shot.

"Whenever John gets Gary to play at the bar, you always look around to see if anyone's watching you before you let yourself enjoy it. Sometimes I wonder if you're just wishing we'd all just disappear so you can get up and dance—and I keep waiting to see if you'll do it anyway."

Figuring he was in it now, Bass took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he let his hands settle lightly on her shoulders. He felt like he was just a casual observer in his own body—his mouth was moving and things that he'd never planned on ever saying were just flowing out and his limbs moved of their own volition. If he could see her face, he'd see her eyes closed and a few stray tears running down her cheeks.

"You're so strong—tough even, but you've got a soft heart, even if you try to pretend you don't. Whenever Aaron's telling one of his stupid geek jokes, you always laugh. I can always tell you're in the same boat as the rest of us—you don't get them either, but it's like you're afraid his feelings will be hurt if no one laughs—so you fake it.

"You still get so nervous around other people—especially guys your own age, although for the life of me I can't figure out why. You're amazing and they all see it too. But whenever anyone comes up to you in town, you get so quiet and you—you hide behind your hair."

"I what?" Charlie asked, her voice quivering now and barely audible.

"Your scar; you try to cover it up. You do it whenever you feel crowded or shy." Since she was obviously not going to turn around, Bass took the initiative and gently prodded her into moving.

She looked as he'd just described, one long lock of her hair in its usual spot, dangling in front of her face and covering up the scar.

"Why are you hiding, Charlie? It's just me." He brushed her hair back behind her ear and traced the back of his fingers down the scar's length. "That's better."

"It's all anyone ever sees," she told him. "I hate it—its ugly and it just reminds people that I'm not… normal."

Bass let out a laugh. "I think I've just proven that's not what I see. And no, you're not normal. You're extraordinary. That's not something you need to hide. I pay attention to you. I _notice _you—even though I try so hard not to."

"Then why haven't you ever said anything?" Charlie seemed not only confused, but her words held a certain amount of accusation.

"Because you're Charlie—you're beautiful and young—so young. I'm not what _she'd _have wanted for you."

"She?"

"Your mom. After all the things I've done, I at least owe her that. And I care enough about you to want you to be happy. I can't make anyone happy. I'm damaged and damned and you need someone that isn't. It's just another reason why I've got to go."

And then, the mood of the moment was instantly broken. Charlie shoved him away from her. She put all her wait into it and he went flying back. "How can you say things like that to me and then with the next breath tell me you're still ditching out? You're so fucking selfish and stupid and full of shit."

"Charlie, you don't understand…"

She shook her head at him. Her face was contorted in an odd mixture of rage, hurt and disgust. "Oh, I understand perfectly. You're so wrapped up in your own head; you _never_ stop and consider that other people might be hurting too. You think you're the only one that has nightmares and can't sleep at night? That you're the only one that feels like you don't fit in and probably never will?"

"What do you want from me? The rest of you are _moving on_. Miles has, Aaron has—you will too. Am I just supposed to sit around and watch everyone else get on with their lives and be stuck out here in the sidelines all by myself? Or worse, drag you all back into limbo with me?

"You're gonna wake up one day and it's not gonna be so bad. You'll find some farmer or something; someone that treats you right and…"

"I don't want some stupid farmer or something. You think you pay attention? Well obviously you don't have a fucking clue." As she spoke, her eyes were red and brimming and her chest was heaving. She was about as upset as he'd ever seen her.

Before he could respond to that and ask her what she _really_ meant by it, Charlie was headed out the door. She let it slam behind him, the sound echoing off the walls and slapping at him. That was not the reaction he'd expected. Not that he really knew what to expect, but he hadn't thought he'd somehow make everything worse.

Bass stood there for quite some time, shocked into complete stillness. He went into the kitchen on autopilot and started to clean up. He scraped the uneaten meal she'd made for him into the slop bucket before the eggs started to harden. He set it on the back porch. In the morning, he'd take it to Will Blakely's place down the street. The guy owned a few pigs and was more than happy to let his neighbors dump their scraps into their troughs.

He grabbed the pack of matches from the counter and struck one. Holding it up, Bass watched the small flame flicker as it slowly burned down the wooden matchstick. He'd spent so much time trying to _not_ pay attention to Charlie. He hadn't been successful in that—at times over the past year and a half, she was damn near all he could see.

He'd never considered the possibility that she'd been paying just as much attention to him. They'd been friends, sure. It'd been inevitable from the moment that Miles had pretty much shoved them together to deal with one another's maladjustment and depression so that he could have a sane moment or two to himself.

"Shit! Fuck!" Bass tossed what was left of the match into the sink and watched as it finished burning down and went out. He dipped his now stinging fingertips into the pot of water that still sat on the stove. He'd zoned out and had forgotten that the match had been lit.

Charlie's words rang in his ears as he dried his hands off and lit second match, this time successfully relighting the stove. They continued to do so while he waited for the water to heat up and then while he did the dishes.

They were still swirl about a short time later when he flopped down on his bed and stared at the shadows that the setting sun cast on his ceiling. It was really for the best. She was pissed and she was hurt but surely, Charlie would get over it. He wasn't worth spending any length of time getting worked up over, and if she was anything, Charlie was practical. She'd eventually come to that conclusion herself.

Everyone always did in the long run. Miles was right about one thing—he'd always be alone. All he was good at was shoving people away. Molly had been the first person in a long time that he'd really let in. He'd been a goner in that respect from the moment he laid eyes on her.

But now she was gone and by all rights had never really been his to hold onto in the first place. Things were better this way. He'd leave and she'd forget all about this and he could go back to… what? "Being just as miserable as I was when they found me in Missouri," he said aloud.

If only they'd realized how low he'd really been that night. In some ways, he knew that they'd found him in the nick of time. He figured that deep down Miles had probably known it, even if Charlie hadn't. Despite the nightmares and everything else that he'd dealt with, he'd was still better now than he'd been back then. Did he really want to go back to that? Traveling from one empty field to another just barely surviving?

Bass got up, having finally made a decision. Dusk was falling around him as he stood on the front porch they shared. After stalling for a few more minutes he knocked on Charlie's door—and got nothing. He was positive she was home. He hadn't heard her leave and the walls were thin enough that he would have.

"Come on Charlie, open the door," he said tiredly. He was still suffering from the previous night as it was. Standing there in the muggy heat, feeling like the world's biggest ass did little to help him in that regard. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."

He finally got a response—one by one he heard each and every window in her half of the duplex slam shut. Not to be discouraged, he walked around to the side of the building. Wincing as he stepped on a rock in his bare feet. Of course, her back door was locked as well.

"Fuck this," he grumbled under his breath. He went back inside and yanked open the hall closet. Pulling out a box of tools, he rummaged around in the dark until his hand closed around what he was looking for—a crowbar. When he'd come across the right materials, he'd used them to reinforce her doors rather than his own. He was sure if he really tried, he could kick one of them in, but this was a hell of a lot easier.

Back on the front porch, he did have the courtesy of knocking one last time. "I swear to god, if you don't open this door, I'm gonna pry it off its damn hinges," he shouted.

In the interest of preserving the integrity of her door and keeping the entire town out of their business, Charlie finally responded. "And then what? You'd just leave me with a broken door too?"

Bass looked up to see her standing there. He let the crowbar clatter to the porch and yanked open her screen door. "I'd have fixed it later," he said as he stepped up onto her front stoop.

"On your way out of town, right?" She stood defensively, her arms crossed over her chest. "Would that have been before or after you made me a slum lord?"

"Okay, I deserve that. I'm sorry, alright? You were right—I wasn't thinking, I was just running away." He had a distinct feeling that she was about to shove him out and slam the door in his face, so he grabbed her and pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

She tried to push him away for a second, but he tightened his hold on her and rested his chin atop her head. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry." He kept repeating it until she finally relaxed against him.

"We were in this together. It was you and me against Miles and his stupid attempts to get us to be okay, and now Molly's gone and you're leaving and…"

Bass pressed kisses on her temple. "I won't. I'm staying."

Charlie looked up at him, her confusion evident. Her eyes were wide, as if she hadn't expected his reply—like she didn't completely believe it. For a second Bass' mind went blank. He just lost himself in her gaze. Framing her face with both hands, he leaned in and finally kissed her. He kept the pressure firm but gentle, not wanting to push his luck.

Her hands were on his chest, resting there lightly. All she had to do was extend her arms and she could have pushed him away, and he'd have let her. It was entirely possible that he'd interpreted her earlier words completely wrong and didn't want to force anything she didn't want. At the same time, if he was going all in, he was going to make sure she had no doubt as to his feelings or intentions.

Taking the fact that she hadn't slapped him as encouragement, Bass ventured a bit deeper, licking her bottom lip as if to ask for permission. When hers parted, Bass swept inside and finally gave into the urge to taste her.

Charlie tentatively kissed him back before giving over. She slid her hands up, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her fingers idly play with the curls at his nape. It sent shivers up and down his spine, and she must have sensed it because she smiled against his mouth then.

It was Charlie that broke the kiss off. They just stayed there, staring at one another. Bass felt dizzy, and this time, he was positive that it wasn't the hangover. "So, are you gonna let me in, or do you wanna just put on a show for that nosy old bastard across the street?" He said.

Charlie looked out over his shoulder and sure enough, he was peeping through his curtains at them, obviously having heard Bass yelling earlier. The old man was another of their more recent neighbors, their quiet little abandoned street having become a lot more populated as Willoughby drew new residents.

She stepped back and allowed him room to enter. Bass kicked the door closed behind him and hesitated. Now that he was here, he wasn't quite sure what he was going to do next. Charlie took the decision from him. She grabbed his hand and led him down the hall into the bedroom.

"You know that's not why I came—I don't expect you to—"

"Shut up," She told him with a shake of her head. "I swear, sometimes you talk way too much."

"Yes, Ma'am," Bass said as he followed her.

Darkness was almost upon them, and so Charlie left him standing in the doorway so she could light the small lamp on her dresser before wisely opening the window once more. When she turned back around, Bass was frozen in place.

Charlie sent him an exasperated look when he hesitated, deciding that she was going to have to meet him halfway. She finally had him where wanted him and she wasn't about to give him a chance to back down now.

She stood on her toes and offered him her lips again. Their tongues met and they stood there, holding on to one another. Charlie let out a whimper when he cupped her bottom with his hands, pushing her into the growing hardness between his legs. "Those shorts are driving me crazy," he practically growled.

"Good. That was the idea," Charlie told him.

"You fight dirty."

Charlie began to tug his t shirt out of his jeans. "Don't forget it," she grinned. It now freed she started to pull it up, intent on removing it as quickly as she could.

"Hold on a second," Bass suddenly said. He grabbed her hands and pulled them off his shirt. He bent at the neck to kiss her again, but Charlie could feel how tense he'd suddenly gotten.

She looked up at him and waited for him to meet her gaze. "It's just me," she said, deliberately using his earlier words against him. "No hiding. You've seen_ all_ of my scars; you don't get to hide yours." She emphasized this, making sure he understood that she wasn't just talking about the one on her face.

She could sense the vulnerability there and knew he was fighting his own anxiety. She'd seen them before, but this was different. That night in the inn in Nebraska, it had just been a friend seeing to another friend's injury. This was an intimacy he hadn't yet allowed and had kept his sexual encounters professional before now because of it.

She watched as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly before nodding his assent. With gentle hands, she lifted the material up. She got it almost to his shoulders before he backed up and finished it for her. Bass held it in his hand for just a split second before letting it fall to the floor.

He kept his gaze fixed on some unknown target over her shoulder, his jaw clenched and body held rigid. Charlie knew how hard it was for him. She held out a hand, tentatively running a finger down one of the scars, which extended from just below his heart all the way across to the other side of his stomach. At the first touch, he flinched a little, but allowed it all the same.

The muscles there flexed under his touch and he closed his eyes. She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to the one extending from his back and over his left shoulder, where the angry scarred tissue ended just below his collar bone.

She went from there, kissing each one she could see. As she worked her way down his stomach, his breath began to come in quick pants. Emboldened now, she reached for his belt and undid the buckle. Deftly pulling it through his belt loops, she tossed it aside as she looked up at him.

Bass' eyes shot open at the sound of it hitting the hardwood. He just watched her while she undid his pants and drew them down, boxers and all. He stepped out of them, and allowed her to just look at him. Despite the fact that letting her inspect his scars had cooled things down a bit on his end, he was still impressive.

Knowing that they had all night to rev things back up, Charlie picked up where she left off, insistent on getting her point across. There were several more lash marks extending below his waistline, the lowest one extending across his hip and ending in the middle of his thigh. That one had come perilously close, and told her what she'd already suspected. He'd been stripped bare for all to see when it had happened.

She worked her way down to these, as if she could somehow make them go away if she just soothed them a little. They were just marks on his skin, some of them thicker and worse than others. He was still attractive and they were both aware he damn well knew it. As she kissed him here and there, he tangled his hands in her hair.

The moment he did, Charlie knew that his insecurities were fading for the moment and giving rise to his want for her. She was getting to the last one, her fingers slowly rubbing up and down the back of his thighs, feeling the marred skin there as well. Out of nowhere, he bent over and hooked his hands under her ribs, lifting her back to her feet.

By then he was fully erect. His eyes had darkened and he growled low in his throat as he kissed her, this time more heatedly than before. "You have too many clothes on," he said as he slid his mouth to the sensitive skin just below her ear.

He toyed with her, sliding his hands down and dragging one across the exposed skin between the hem of her tank top and her shorts. Pressing on the small of her back, he held her pinned against him. He nibbled and kissed his way down her neck to her shoulder, and then took the liberty of correcting the problem of her clothes.

Before she knew what was happening, her shorts were resting on her ankles and her bra and tank top were lord knew were. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once—cupping her breasts, rubbing her back, forcing her pelvis to grind against him as he explored the curves of her bottom.

Bass backed her up to the bed and picked her up. He tossed her lightly onto the middle of it before joining her there. "I swear, I'll take my time with you later," he vowed as he settled himself between her legs, "but I need you now."

Charlie arched up and kissed him in response, reaching between them to guide him in place. "It's about fucking time," she sighed as he slid home.

One hand cradling her, the other reaching for her fingers, Bass just lay there. Charlie felt the fullness of him, the way it stretched her to accommodate is size. Her body instantly yielded and she felt like she was aching from head to toe with need. She brought her legs up and wrapped them around his waist, moving under him.

Bass took the hint and began to move. His slow steady strokes drove her wild and soon she found herself panting and writhing, meeting him half way with each thrust. When he lowered his mouth to one breast, she found herself pulling at his hair with her spare hand, fingers tangled in it and her back arching, encouraging the relentless torture as he licked and teased her.

Heedless of the fact that anyone could hear them through the open window, each intake of Charlie's breath was a gasp, each exhalation a moan. Every inch of her body was on fire as he continued to build her up and she felt like she was going to combust.

"Oh God," she said in between pants and cries as she started to quiver and quake around him. His thrusts were faster now, encouraged as he was by her response. She arched her back and threw her head back one last time as she finally reached the precipice and went over, tensing around him and practically coming off the mattress.

He released her tortured nipple and slid up to her throat, teeth lightly scraping her sensitive skin. He picked up the pace, rapidly slamming into her. She released his hand and held on to him, arms tightening and nails digging into his scarred back.

"I'm gonna come," he breathed into her neck as he continued to pound into her, his movements now completely erratic as he tried to get himself there. He pulled out then, and collapsed onto her, trapping his flesh against her. He ground down, and spilled across her belly as he let out a low groan.

Charlie grabbed his face in both hands, bringing him up so she could kiss him. He let her control it, making her feel powerful as her tongue now slid in between his teeth. She took the opportunity to explore him now until the heat of the room and the slickness of their skin forced him to roll off of her.

They lay there together, side by side and panting—not a word spoken between them for quite some time. When she'd come back down to earth and had caught her breath enough to speak, Charlie gestured over to a ewer and basin that stood on a pretty wooden table she'd somehow found on the other side of the room. "There's water," she indicated.

Bass got up and did the honors, pouring the tepid water. In the drawer he found a few rags. He dipped one into the water, wringing it out before coming back to the bed. He cleaned her up, taking his time and never taking his eyes off of hers. He moved the rag gently across her stomach, removing the evidence of his climax from her before taking the liberty of washing off his own skin.

She watched as he went back to the basin and disposed of the rag. Charlie was far from inexperienced, but the simple intimacy of the moment was novel to her. She'd never let someone touch her like that and none had even tried. She held her arms out to him and Bass joined her in the bed once more.

Later, the room still remained uncomfortably hot. They found themselves outside on the hammock, Charlie resting her head on his bare chest and a thin sheet draped over them. He hadn't bothered with more than his jeans and Charlie had slipped on nightgown that was just modest enough to maybe pass for a sundress—if no one looked too closely.

"It was stupid, getting so attached," he said thoughtfully. "I knew it wasn't going to last, but the longer it went, I guess I sort of started hoping that Blanchard and everyone else had forgotten about her."

"Me too," Charlie admitted. "It's funny, at first when she seemed to prefer you over everyone else, I was kind of bothered—like she thought there was something wrong with me—you'd have thought a baby would have preferred a woman to a man. But god, it was like the two of you chose each other or something."

"I never stood a chance," Bass said. "Not with Molly, not with you."

Charlie kissed him then, and they reverted back to silence and just enjoying the closeness of one another while the hammock swayed lazily. It was so much cooler than it was inside and they were content to spend the night there.

Her breathing evened out and she went slack and Bass knew she'd fallen asleep. He was still tired and was sated, so he let himself drift off. As he did, he realized that while he was still hurting, it wasn't quite as sharp as it had been. Being with Charlie, holding her after what they'd shared had taken the edge off of the ache and he knew then that he'd just made the smartest decision in probably his entire life.

**THE NOTE: Happy Friday all. I'm sorry for the delay in this Chapter. I had all this great dialog and this long scene pieced together for a long time, but it was still in fragments and I had to get it to mesh together. Yes, Bass had a lot to say in this chapter—most of which references previous scenes in this fic. A few don't and most of it is probably very out of character, but well, people evolve as time passes. **

**I tried to force Bass into a lot of vulnerability in this chapter and I hope it is excused. Sometimes your tough guy has to show strength in allowing himself to be open and vulnerable and insecure. And in some ways, I think that's the essence of his character. **

**As promised, our couple will **_**not**_** break up. I do it a lot, so I decided to have all the ups and downs come from another source. Don't worry, the last chapter will not be the last we see of Molly, but she will be gone for the time being as the rest of the story begins to unfold.**

**I struggled with the thought of keeping the T rating for ffnet, but I love a good smut scene, and it provided the outlet for a lot of intimacy and the release of a lot of built up tension that comes from two friends finally coming together after realizing that they were being very silly indeed. **

**So anyway, I hope it's not too campy and that you all enjoy. **


	6. The World's Most Annoying Alarm Clock

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay. I've been distracted by other stories (one of which I've started publishing, two more which will eventually emerge) and with life. It seems there are never enough hours in the day and it's hard to get time to write when I've got two kids to entertain all day instead of one. **

**Anyway, thanks to anyone that's still following, and again my apologies to keep you waiting this long! By the way, I owe a shout out to IceonFire for previewing a chapter a while back! My shout outs are about as backed up as my writing, reading and commenting (and responding to comments). **

**I've been struggling with how much of the budding relationship to include vs. advancing the plot of this story. So, I'll leave it up to the readers… Move it along or show you various scenes I've written (which may, or may not include some smutty goodness). None of them are pertinent to the plot at all, but could be fun besides. Let me know your thoughts if you have a moment.**

**Dawn… The Morning After…**

Bass was just working Charlie's sodden nightgown over her head when they heard a bang on the front door. They'd woken up to an early morning downpour and had been forced to make a mad dash inside. Since they were already up, Bass had decided that they might as well take advantage of it. He'd already ditched his jeans under the pretense of the discomfort of wet denim and was revved up and ready to go.

"Just ignore it," he said into the side of her neck as he nibbled is way down to her shoulder.

"It's probably important," Charlie gasped, arching up as his hands reached her breasts. "Why else would it be so early?"

"It's probably just the wind," he insisted.

The unwanted visitor wasn't to be denied, however. After another brief rap or two, they heard the door fly open. "Yo, Charlie!" Miles' voice rang out from the living room.

"Shit!" Charlie hissed. "Um, hold on a second!" She immediately shoved Bass away, sending him flopping down onto the bed.

"You okay in there?" Miles must have heard the commotion and his voice sounded closer now.

"Yeah! Be out in a minute!" Charlie raced to the closet door and started tearing through it until she found her robe. _Stay put,_ she mouthed as she tied the belt and sent Bass a look indicating that he should behave himself.

_Well duh_. Bass watched her scamper out of the bedroom before her uncle decided to figure out for himself what was taking so long. She'd been forced to leave the jar slightly ajar—Miles might find it odd for her to close it if it was just the two of them there.

Now alone, he pushed himself up on his elbows and strained to hear the muffled voices in the next room. He briefly considered his dick, which seemed to have not received the memo that play time was over.

_Nobody ever died of blue balls. Although… I could be the first. _"Down boy," Bass grumbled. "You're services are no longer required—Miles cock blocked us."

From the sound of things, Charlie had dragged Miles into the kitchen. It was about as far from the bedroom as she could get him. He'd have preferred it if she'd just sent him packing so they could pick up where they'd left out, but with the storm and all, he could see how it would seem a bit odd if she just threw him out.

He could hear her working the pump. More than likely she'd be putting the coffee on. _I want coffee… and then I want… Give it up, idiot. Focus! You gotta get out of here. Stop thinking with your dick!_

_What else is new?_ _Last night…_ Okay, so he hadn't exactly been thinking with that either when he'd come here, threatening to break in. He hadn't been thinking at all by then. That had been all emotion and instinct. Now, in the cold light of morning, with his best friend's inopportune arrival, Bass couldn't help but let it sink in that there were more things to consider here than their own wants and needs.

They had to stop and think about Miles and how this would affect him. This wasn't likely to go over well at all. Besides the age difference and the fact that he and Miles had known one another since pre-school, there was also all the bullshit that had happened in the years since.

Miles had given him quite a bit of latitude for everything that had happened in Philly, all things considered. They'd managed to salvage some of the friendship—the brotherhood. That had had been nothing short of a miracle. Miracles, however, only went so far.

There were still a lot of things left unsaid between them both and Bass didn't quite trust that friendship to survive Miles finding out about him and Charlie. Things were still too unstable; he could imagine that when and if this came out, it could very possibly destroy that fragile reconciliation.

Before he risked that, Bass preferred to at the very least figure out _what_ exactly "him and Charlie" meant. All he'd known last night was that the thought of her hurting because of something he _hadn't_ done killed him and that he couldn't stand the thought of being alone again. This morning, it was no clearer. They hadn't exactly discussed it.

He just knew that the sharp pangs of heartache were so much less than they were the morning before. He'd gotten too attached for Molly's absence to not matter—that dull ache was still there and would be for quite some time. But, falling asleep holding Charlie had made him realize that things were going to be different this time around.

He didn't _have_ to shut down and would be able to get past this. There'd be no back-peddling, no lashing out. He'd lost so many people and each time, he'd been overwhelmed by those desolate feelings of isolation. And, each time it had been sharper—more poignant. He'd always felt that even breathing was painful and for that first twenty-four hours after the Wilsons had come it had started out the same way.

Was he still hurting? Sure. And yet for the first time he felt like there was actually light at the end of that tunnel. Maybe it meant that the feelings he'd been harboring for Charlie—the ones he'd tried so hard to ignore—went so much deeper than he'd realized. Or, it could just mean he was more cracked than he'd imagined—that was _always_ a possibility.

Either way, he wasn't willing to walk away until he figured it out. And, if holding onto Charlie kept him sane as he recovered from fate's most recent bitch slap, Miles would eventually have to learn to live with it. This morning, however, wasn't a good time to test that theory out.

"Not that I don't love a visit every now and then, but why are you here—in the middle of a thunderstorm… at the ass-crack of dawn?" he heard Charlie ask, breaking him out of his own head.

_Why indeed? _Bass thought. He could hear the firebox door squeaking on her stove, proving his theory about coffee.

"Orders came in yesterday." Miles' voice drifted down the hallway. Bass had to strain his ears now to catch all of their words.

"So, where are we off to this time?"

Bass could practically picture Miles fidgeting in his chair—it always accompanied the sigh he now heard—that exaggerated and nervous one that indicated Miles was about to say something he was afraid would be taken poorly. "About that… Listen, it's a two man escort job. Double-oh-seven kind of stuff."

In his mind's eye, Bass saw Charlie roll her eyes and scrunch up her nose at the reference. He had to bite his lip to suppress a chuckle at that. She'd of course be annoyed, because she wouldn't have gotten it. "Double _what?_"

As he listened, he got out of bed. He'd have to get out before Miles figured out he was here. He grabbed his damp jeans and went to pull them on. He frowned at the feel of wet denim against his skin. It was never a comfortable sensation—and zipping them up over what was left of his hard-on was not going to be pleasant either.

"Nevermind," Miles continued. "Anyway, I was thinking about bringing Bass in on this one—I think it'll be good for him. He's been out of action since… Well, anyway, he could probably use some time away, you know?"

Bass crept down the hallway as quietly as he could and peered around the corner. Sure enough, Miles was sitting at Charlie's tiny kitchen table, his back to the hallway. The second Charlie saw him lurking in the doorway, Charlie's eyes widened—she shot him a look that practically screamed, _What are you doing?!_

Thankfully, Miles must not have noticed her unease, because he kept talking. "I'm worried about him. He didn't show up at the bar yesterday and I checked all his usual haunts last night. Nada—no one's seen him."

"Maybe he's hiding because he doesn't want you to meddle," Charlie replied as she measured the coffee grounds. "You're a meddler; you know you are so, don't bother denying it."

"No, he's probably moping in a drunken stupor somewhere—probably the most disgusting watering hole or whorehouse in Texas. That's his style when he's got a bug up his ass about something. The worse it gets, the worse the bar and the filthier the whores," Miles explained, sounding almost a little superior. _As if he didn't ever do the same thing…_ "Trust me, I _know_ how he gets."

Bass took exception to Miles' description of his coping mechanisms. Granted, they weren't all that far off the mark, but he was insulted by the lack of credit he was getting now. As Miles continued to ponder aloud about what type of dive he was in and what depraved behaviors he was displaying, he stood behind him and mimed slapping him in the back of the head.

By the time that he'd moved on to mimicking him, using his hand to represent Miles' flapping jaws, Charlie was just setting a cup of coffee in front of Miles on the table. She almost let it slip from her hand and it hit the table with a bit more force than she'd obviously intended.

"The cup is hot," she murmured in apology. She spared Bass a death glare when Miles looked down to doctor his cup with the contents of his trusty flask. She waved him on, as if to tell him to get out of there while he could.

"Anyway, have you seen him since the bar? If we're gonna get going, I kinda need to find him," Miles asked as he took a sip of his now spiked coffee.

Charlie just barely managed to wipe the annoyance off of her face by the time Miles sat back in his chair and looked up once more. "Did you check his place?" she asked.

All the while, Bass was having a hard time taking this too seriously. He could read the panic in her eyes and Miles' being oblivious to his presence made the moment all too tempting. He continued to make faces behind his brother's back, fully aware of the fact that she'd make him pay for it later. He was really pushing his luck and he knew it.

"Now why didn't I think of that? Of _course_ I went there first."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. I'm not your Bass' keeper," she told him. Miles must have looked away again, because Charlie shot him another glare. It told Bass that he'd better come up with a place to go rather quickly.

He cocked a brow at her and then darted to the front door. He opened it up and let it slam shut again. "Basement's flooded," he said nonchalantly as he came into the kitchen.

"Where the hell have you been? And where are the rest of your clothes?" Miles narrowed his eyes at him while he spoke.

"I've been in the fucking basement getting you're niece's shit off the ground. There's a good inch or two of water down there already. Good morning to you too, dick." Bass did his best to sound as grouchy as possible. He had no idea if the basement was actually leaking, but it had happened in the past and it sounded good at least. As a concerned landlord, it'd be his duty to inform his tenant of such a dire occurrence.

"And you felt the need to strip down before you came over to tell her?" Miles' focus was entirely too fixated on Bass' state of undress and it did not bode well for the future.

"I'd thought she'd appreciate it if I didn't bring the flood with me," he said before turning to Charlie. "Anyway, I just thought you'd like a heads up. If there's anything down there you're particularly attached to, you might wanna go get it sooner rather than later. You'll have to use my stairs though. I haven't gotten around to fixing yours yet." Bass thought that last little bit was a little inspired. It definitely solved the potential problem of Miles poking his head down the stairs and seeing for himself.

Catching on, Charlie rolled her eyes. "Seriously? It's been a month!"

He shrugged as he helped himself to a cup of coffee. "Been busy. I'll get to it this week."

"No, you're not asshole. We've got a job." Miles interjected.

Bass flipped a chair around and sat backwards. The denim only pulled tighter, but he was going for casual and innocent here. "I was wondering what brought you to the projects this early. You know it's the ass crack of dawn, right? What's the job?"

"Escort mission with a twist," Miles grinned.

After the war had ended, the political climate was changing across the continent. The worst of it was happening in California. Laney Affleck was unstable and had already been losing her grip on the government. The Patriots had only made the situation worse.

She'd already lost her gains in Canada. British Columbia had seceded and there'd been little Cali could do to stop it. The year before, it had officially joined with Alberta to create the new republic of Western Canada.

Now, the former states of Oregon and Washington were trying to follow their northern neighbor's lead. The people there had a vision of becoming the independent republic of Cascadia. For the time being, the rebellion was a passive one, but if something didn't change, it could very well lead to war in order to secure their right to govern themselves.

Texas was, of course in full support of the change. There were a lot of natural resources in the territory—the area was rich with some of the best lumber on the continent and in mineral deposits besides. The most valuable of which was gold. Those were the same reasons that Affleck was adamant about putting down the rebellion, however.

Blanchard had decided to reach out to the rebel government in Salem. If they were serious about creating their own republic, he wanted to be the first to offer a helping hand. However, until he gained approval from congress to risk warfare (which was unlikely, considering they were still recovering from the Patriot war), he had to go in under the radar.

"That's where we come in. And I'll give you all the details later," he said as he downed the last of his coffee and stood. "Come on, you've gotta get your shit packed. Train leaves in a couple of hours."

"What? Come on, I'm fucking tired," Bass whined. They almost always were given a day or two to prepare before leaving on a job. "We get notice—we _always_ get notice."

Miles shoved him towards the door. "Not this time, we don't. You can sleep on the train, you big baby. Package is on its way and our papers will be waiting for us at the station."

Bass gave up the fight. There was no use—Miles was wearing his determined face. He got moving and headed back next door to get dressed. Much to his added annoyance, Miles decided not to trust him to get his ass in gear, because he followed him all the way back to his bedroom.

"A little privacy?"

Miles chuckled. "What? So you can get a cat nap in? I _know_ you. Now get dressed."

Bass shrugged and went over to the closet. There was a small mirror that hung on the door. He happened to look up and saw that there was a small and yet very visible hickey on the base of his throat. He'd been lucky that Miles hadn't noticed it yet. Round two out on the hammock had been a bit more enthusiastic than their first encounter had been.

He decided that if Miles was going to invade his personal space that he could very well suffer his bare ass. Bass stripped right in front of him and started to yank on a dry pair of jeans. _What a way to start a morning._

"Damn, Bass. What'd you do? Hire a harem of vampires or something?"

"Huh?" Miles was pointing to a few more bite marks he had down lower. Okay, so their second go at it had been _a lot_ more enthusiastic than the first. He hadn't been aware she'd marked him. _Change the subject!_ "Yeah, well I like the fun ones," he quipped as he zipped up his jeans and then reached for a shirt.

"If you're gonna stand there and gawk, you can explain the job while you're at it," he added.

"It's like I said, simple escort job. We get him to Cali, we smuggle him into Oregon, we get him settled and we go the fuck home."

"Great, so we get to babysit another one of Walnut's lackeys?" Bass personally considered these escort jobs a pain in the ass.

"Just think of it as a little vacation," Miles told him. "A change of scenery will be good for you. You about ready to go?" He was starting to get impatient and had started snooping just to give himself something to do. He'd followed Bass into the kitchen and was now poking around the drawers and cabinets.

"Vacation? These guys are all the same. They can't handle themselves, they whine all the time and they're more likely to get us killed than be of any use if we run into trouble.

"That's the beauty of this job," Miles said as he began to riffle through Bass' junk drawer. "Our guy doesn't even know we're his escort. And he's not gonna know until we get there. He's been told someone will meet him at the station in Eureka to smuggle him north."

_Well isn't that interesting? _All the cloak and dagger shit was at least a new spin on the same old song and dance they were used to. "Seriously?" Bass slammed the drawer shut, almost smashing Miles' fingers in the process. Nobody liked a snoop.

Miles shrugged it off and then sat at the table while Bass finished shoving things in his backpack. "It's a security thing. We'll be given papers, aliases and an excuse to be there. There's supposed to be new papers for all three of us waiting in Cali. We can use those to get us a train ride home."

"This is stupid," Bass grouched. "We'd be better off just smuggling the guy across the border _in_ Oregon. Why don't we ride through the wastelands? It's better than getting caught with forged papers."

"It's not our job to question why Blanchard does the things he does. It's our job to get paid, and all things considered, a train ride to Cali is a hell of a lot faster. Just get moving, will you?"

Bass ended up with only about two minutes alone with Charlie before they left for the station. He'd given Miles a flimsy excuse about needing her to take care of a few things and then had darted inside while her uncle waited impatiently on their shared porch.

He'd wanted to talk to her and maybe come to some kind of understanding, but all he'd had time for was to kiss her goodbye and secure a quick promise to get Molly's stuff taken care of for him while he was gone. Instead of morning sex and a day in bed, he was stuck with a road trip he didn't want. As he followed Miles to the train station, he began the longest three weeks of his entire life.

**May 31, 2032**

__All things considered, Bass thought he'd been a good sport about things. He'd endured four excruciatingly boring days on the train. That part of the job entailed just keeping an eye on Brandon Ellis from afar. If he went to the dining car, so did one or both of them. If he went to take a piss, one of them had to follow as nonchalantly as possible.

When he was seated, they were seated— at the far end of the same car. The entire trip, Miles had watched him for signs of crazy, as if he'd expected Bass to snap at a moment's notice. By the time that Miles had gotten off the train a few stops before them, he'd been ready to do just that.

He got it—that first night, he'd been in a bad place. All the other times, he'd been in a bad place. He'd been in such a bad place that he hadn't even bothered trying to hide it. This time, Miles expected the same and so refused to see that he was doing okay.

Miles had gone on ahead to the rendezvous point on the border while Bass and Ellis had taken the train all the way to Eureka. Making contact had been a little nerve wracking. They'd had to do it under the watchful eye of California without raising suspicions. Instead of meeting him in person, Bass had sent a hired wagon with a sign for Ellis' alias (James Dean… Texas had _no_ imagination). It had taken him to the hotel that Bass had checked into and he'd made contact by breaking into Ellis' room and waiting for him.

There'd been no problem getting to the border—Miles had been already waiting for them and had their new papers. They'd ridden hard to Salem and had gotten there in just under a week. That had given them a few days to check things out and test the waters before seeing Ellis settled.

Once there, Bass let Miles take over. While his friend made nice with the locals, it was Bass' job to lurk around town and just keep an eye out for trouble. Specifically, he was to ferret out any agents from down south to ensure the safety of Blanchard's guy.

He did find a madam that was suspect and a blacksmith that had probably had Patriot ties at one point. He turned in his reports and was then sent to inspect a newly formed Cascadian Militia training camp outside of town while Miles wrapped things up with Ellis and the rebel government.

When Bass had wandered around town playing the part of tourist, he'd been surprised at the difference between life here and in Texas. Despite being one of the more "civilized" republics, Texas was a weird animal. It was like living in a very depressing version of a spaghetti western.

Oregon, on the other hand, felt fresh and was so green it hurt his eyes sometimes. The weather in Willoughby had turned sometime in early April and he'd been hot and miserable ever since. Bass was convinced that Texas was incapable of experiencing actual seasons. Oregon was so much cooler in comparison.

The people were cleaner too—probably due to the fact that it rained all the time. Texas went through weeks on end without so much as a raindrop during the summer, but from what he'd been told the "dry" season was really about as wet as the rainiest seasons in Willoughby.

The settlement was actually centered in one of the pre-blackout outlying suburbs. Downtown Salem had been destroyed in the fires that had wracked much of the country in the early days of the blackout. The area had served as a county seat of sorts for this part of the territory after Cali had taken over. It had remained such until the region had decided that independence was vital for the people to thrive.

When it had become known town that Texas had sent a representative, they'd seemed almost relieved. Bass could understand that. If Texas supported their efforts, it meant that Cali would be even less likely to declare war to keep them. There was no way that Affleck's army could contend with Blanchard's Rangers.

They'd stayed in town for three days before moving on. Their new papers had labeled them as contractors for Texas that had come to negotiate over supplies for the ongoing rebuilds. It had been a bit touchy trying to get back on a train without being stopped, but they'd made it. As far as Cali was concerned, they'd spent the entire time failing at negotiating lumber prices and had left for home annoyed and empty handed.

They'd gotten back to Austin just few days ago. Bass had figured they'd just hop the next train east to Willoughby, but Miles and Blanchard had other plans. Because it was almost the holiday, they'd been invited to stay as Blanchard's guests for a few days. When the perverted old general and his entourage left, they'd join them.

Blanchard insisted on Willoughby being an annual thing. Of course, Bass had complained. He'd just wanted to get back home and had not shared Miles' desire to party it up for a few days before doing so. Miles had been convinced that this was because Bass was depressed and so had only pushed the issue further.

He'd gotten Old Walnuts himself in on it too. Bass had spent those days in Austin avoiding the women from Blanchard's personal little harem and coming up with logical reasons for having done so. The excuses varied constantly: Not into redheads… Reminds me of a teacher I had in high school (and then defended his position that "Daisy" did indeed resemble Sister Agatha)… Too drunk… Not drunk enough… and so on.

They'd pulled into the station in Willoughby shortly after the festivities in town had already started. This had given him about half an hour to get cleaned up (in Blanchard's personal rooms, thank you very much) before being dragged to the main table for a second year in a row.

All he'd wanted was to go home, preferably with his woman of choice and sleep off the past three weeks. But instead, he was forced to endure more speeches from Blanchard. What made it worse was the fact that Charlie had arrived shortly after them. He'd sent her a look of apology—right before his eyes almost jumped out of his skull when he'd noticed what she was wearing.

Bass didn't know where she'd gotten that little sundress, but it was clearly not her normal style. The bodice was modest enough, but the skirt had the eyes of every male present (excluding those she was related to by blood) staring at her. Her hair was put up in some messy type of bun and held in place with an old plastic clip and the effect drove him nuts throughout dinner. She was seated across from him and it took every ounce of his willpower to pay attention to anything else that happened around them.

When dinner had finally ended and the majority of the people at the table had gotten up to go seek their pleasure, Bass had assumed he was dismissed as well. Already, Charlie had disappeared, stating she was going to have a drink and listen to the band that had set up on the other side of the town square.

His plans on following her were quickly destroyed when Blanchard told Miles that they had business to discuss. There were growing tensions south of the border in Mexico and it meant that a lot more work would be coming their way.

"Shouldn't we be discussing this with Charlie?" Bass interrupted at one point. "Considering how she's technically a third of our little business and all?"

"I don't think we need to involve the little lady," Blanchard replied as he lit his cigar. "She'll do her job—always does, but this is business, boys."

Bass wisely held his tongue. Yes, Blanchard was a misogynistic prick, but he also did pay the bills. Charlie would be annoyed at the exclusion, but she'd get over it. Technically, Miles was in charge at any rate, so Bass was only being included in this because of his long and colorful history with the man.

By the time they were given leave to get the hell out of there, both men were exhausted. As much as Bass had wanted to slip away and track down Charlie, Miles was just as eager to see Melissa. As they parted ways, it occurred to Bass that those extra days in Austin had been Miles sacrificing time with his own woman in order to make sure that he was distracted and okay. As obnoxious as it had been, it was almost sweet in a weird and annoying kind of way.

Miles would likely drag Melissa home the second he found her, so Bass knew that he'd have the rest of the night without risking discovery (as long as he avoided Gene and the Pittmans). He headed for the bar tents first, but found that if she'd even been there, Charlie was long gone.

A half hour later, he'd still turned up nothing. She hadn't been watching the band, nor was she in John and Melissa's bar. There was only one place she could be, and that was home. And so, that's where he'd headed.

A quick search of both units proved in vain and he was about to go back to town to look again when he decided to check one more place. Sure enough, there was a Charlie sized silhouette on the hammock. "Took you long enough," she said, her voice ringing with amusement.

"You could have waited for me at the party, you know," he countered.

Charlie got up and met him halfway. She was holding a glass of whiskey, which she immediately handed to him. "If I did that, then at some point people were going to figure out that I'm not wearing anything under this dress."

Bass downed his drink and tossed the glass over his shoulder. "I guess that means you missed me?" His lips were just barely touching hers as he spoke and his body already reacting to her little proclamation.

"Maybe just a little. You like my dress?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I'd love it more on my bedroom floor."

Charlie grabbed him by the belt loops and inched him a bit closer. "Who says we're making it inside?"

Bass chuckled as he yanked her into his arms and kissed her. It certainly was good to be home and he wasn't going to waste a second of it. Thankfully, their backyard was dark and the rest of the town was gathered for the party. They had at least until the planned fireworks display was over before anyone was apt to catch them making up for lost time in the soft grass.


End file.
